J-J-Bell 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

JAMES   J.   MCERIDE 


re  a  poet,  Wullie  McWattie? 
(Page  19.) 


WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 


Something  bounced  forth,   flashed  past  his   eyes,   and 
alighted  on  the  floor.     (Page  35.) 


WULLIE  McWATTIE'S 
MASTER 


BY 


J.  J.  BELL 


AUTHOR  OF  "Ox!  CHRISTINA!"  "WHITHER  THOU 
GOEST,"  "\VEE  MACGREEGOR,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK         CHICAGO         TORONTO 

Fleming  H.   Revell  Company 

LONDON       AND       EDINBURGH 


Copyright,  1909-1910,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto :  25  Richmond  St.,  "W. 
London :  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  100  Princes  Street 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAOB 

I.    His  FEELINGS 9 

II.     His  RESPONSIBILITY         ...  26 

III.  His  JUSTICE 42 

IV.  His  TOILET 56 

V.     His  LUCK 65 

VI.     His  CHARITY 74 

VII.     His  YOUTH 92 

VIII.     His  NEW  YEAR  QUEST     .       .        .  109 

IX.     His  SPECTACLES        ....  118 

X.    His  NEIGHBOURS'  DEEDS  OF  KIND- 
NESS          131 

XI.     His  DISTRESS 148 

XII.     His  REWARD  157 


712885 


"Come  oot  o'  that!     Come  aff  ma  bed,  afore  it's  ower 
late,  ye  muckle  antelope!  "     (Page  71.) 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  So  ye're  a  poet,  Wullie  Me  Wattle?  " 

Something  bounced  forth,  flashed  past  his  eyes, 
and  alighted  on  the  floor. 

"Come  oot  o'  that!     Come  aff  ma  bed,  afore 
it's  ower  late,  ye  muckle  antelope ! " 

Mr.  Redhorn  read  the  lines  three  times  very 
carefully. 

"  Mistress  McWattie,  if  ye  gang  to  Canada, 
Joseph  Ridhorn's  a  done  man !  " 


L 


Mr.  Redhorn  read  the  lines  three  times  very  carefully. 
(Page  111.) 


WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 


HIS  FEELINGS 

PAINT-POT  and  brush  in  hand,  Mr.  Red- 
horn  stood  behind  Willie  McWattie,  his 
fourteen-year-old  apprentice,  and  sor- 
rowfully regarded  the  latter's  handiwork  in 
bright  green  upon  the  Misses  Lavendar's  fence. 

"Wullie,  Wullie,"  he  said  reproachfully, 
"d'ye  ca'  that  pentin'?" 

The  boy  stayed  his  brush,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  The  poet,"  remarked  Mr.  Redhorn,  "  is 
born,  no'  made;  an'  I  doot  it's  the  same  wi'  the 
penter.  Ye  was  maybe  born  wi'  a  siller  spune 
in  yer  mooth,  Wullie  McWattie — I'm  shair  I 
hope  ye  was  for  yer  mither's  sake — but  I'm 
feart  it  wasna  a  pent-brush." 

"  Was  you  born  wi'  a  pent-brush  in  yer 
mooth,  Maister  Ridhorn?"  asked  the  boy 
innocently. 

"  Feeguratively  speakin',"  replied  Mr.  Red- 
horn  modestly,  "  I  may  say  I  was." 

"  Was't  a  size  brush  ?  "  Willie  inquired  with 
a  snigger. 

"Noo,  Wullie,"  said  the  painter  in  a  warn- 
ing tone,  "that'll  dae!  Impiddence  has  made 
9 


10    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

some  folk  in  this  world  millionaires,  but  it's 
sent  ithers  to  the  jile.  What  I  was  gaun  to 
say  to  ye  was  this:  Ye're  no'  a  genius,  but  I 
believe  ye  wud  mak'  a  fair  average  penter  if  ye 
persevered  an'  peyed  attention.  But  yer  care- 
lessness wud  gar  an  angel  greet.  'Deed,  wud 
it!  See  this!" 

Mr.  Eedhorn  pointed  to  a  spar  which  the  boy 
had  just  left  as  finished.  "  Noo  that's  no'  what 
I  ca'  pentit.  A  hen  could  ha'e  made  as  guid  a 
job  wi'  its  bare  feet." 

"Is  this  yin  richt?"  the  boy  inquired,  indi- 
cating the  next  spar. 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head. 

"  Ye  dinna  require  a  guid  brush  to  pit  pent 
on  like  that.  Ye  could  dae  it  wi'  a  spurtle. 
Luk  at  the  pent  rinnin'  doon  in  what  ye  micht 
describe  as  festoons.  It's  like  treacle.  Tak' 
yer  rag  an'  wipe  it  aff .  I  dinna  want  ma  repu- 
tation in  Fairport  ruined.  Later  on,  ye  can 
pent  it  ower  again.  D'ye  understaun' ?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Willie,  a  little  sulkily. 

"Listen,  ma  laddie,"  continued  Mr.  Red- 
horn.  "  The  golden  rule  in  pentin',  Wullie,  is 
no'  jist  to  dae  it  wi'  a'  yer  micht :  ye  maun  dae 
it  wi'  a'  yer  hert.  It  doesna  matter  what  the 
job  is.  Even  if  it's  but  a  pigsty  or  the  door 
o'  a  midden,  ye  maun  pent  it  as  if  ye  loved 
it — no'  as  if  ye  wantit  to  cover  it  quick,  but 
as  if  ye  loved  it.  An'  if  ye  pent  in  that  speerit, 
ye'll  be  as  happy  as  a  king,  an'  ye'll  whustle  at 
yer  wark  frae  mornin'  till  nicht,  as  a'  guid 


HIS  FEELINGS  11 

penters  dae — unless  they  happen  to  be  martyrs 
to  dyspepsia  an'  chilblains." 

"  But  I  dinna  want  to  be  a  penter,  Maister 
Ridhorn,"  said  the  boy. 

"  What's  that  ye're  sayin'  ?  "  Mr.  Eedhorn's 
ethical  flight  was  rudely  stopped  just  when  it 
had  got  well  under  way. 

"  I'm  sayin'  I  dinna  want  to  be  a  penter.  I 
want  to  be  a  sailor." 

"  Oh,  criftens !  "  the  painter  exclaimed,  rais- 
ing his  brush  to  Heaven.  "  He  wants  to  be  a 
sailor,  an'  him  the  only  son  o'  his  mither,  an' 
her  a  weeda!  Think  shame  o'  yersel',  Wullie 
McWattie,  think  shame  o'  yersel' ! " 

Willie  hung  his  head,  but  muttered  rebel- 
liously. 

"  Hoo  d'ye  think  yer  mither  wud  like  ye  to 
gang  awa'  an'  leave  her?"  Mr.  Redhorn  asked, 
more  calmly.  "Ye  sud  try  to  mind  ye're  the 
only  yin  she's  got,  an'  it's  yer  duty  to  keep 
by  her  an'  tak'  guid  care  o'  her." 

"  But  ma  fayther  said  I  was  to  get  bein'  a 
sailor,"  said  the  boy,  twirling  his  brush  in  the 
paint-pot. 

"Yer  fayther,  puir  man,  didna  coont  on 
leavin'  yer  mither  a  weeda  to  work  for  her 
meat.  I'm  no'  sayin'  onything  agin  bein'  a 
sailor,  Wullie — though  I  canna  agree  wi'  the 
sea  masel' — internally,  I  mean, — but  the  pent- 
in's  an  honourable  tred,  an'  wi'  a'  its  dangers, 
ye  can  aye  be  shair  o'  a  funeral  when  yer  time 
comes." 


12    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  I'm  no  feart  for  the  sea !  An'  I  can  sclim 
up  onything." 

"  Yer  abeelity  for  sclimmin'  needna  be  wastit 
in  the  pentin'  tred,  espaycially  if  ye  get  the  job 
o'  gildin'  a  cock  on  a  kirk  steeple,"  the  painter 
returned  encouragingly.  "  That's  a  job  I  never 
could  tackle.  Ma  heid  sooms  when  I  get  up 
to  high  altitudes."  He  smacked  his  lips  after 
the  word.  "  High  altitudes,"  he  repeated,  "  is 
no'  in  ma  line.  But  this'll  never  dae,  Wullie," 
he  said  abruptly.  "  The  Miss  Lavendars  dinna 
pey  us  to  indulge  in  conversation.  Get  on  wi' 
yer  pentin'.  See  if  ye  canna  mak'  a  better  job 
this  time.  Be  gentle  yet  firm,  as  a  young  leddy 
I  read  aboot  was  when  she  tell't  a  young  man 
she  didna  want  his  unwelcome  attentions. 
Pentin's  neither  prize-fechtin'  nor  fly-fishin'." 

rt  It's  no'  sax  o'clock  yet,  Maister  Ridhorn?  " 

Mr.  Redhorn  consulted  a  fat  silver  watch. 
"Ay;  it's  jist  sax.  But  we'll  gang  on  till  the 
quarter  past  the  nicht,  Wullie." 

Having  finished  his  evening  meal,  Mr.  Red- 
horn  helped  himself  to  a  dose  of  the  physic 
which,  he  was  always  ready  to  testify,  pro- 
vided the  world's  one  cure  for  dyspepsia.  He 
then  seated  himself  in  his  easy-chair  by  the 
hearth  and  produced  from  his  pocket  a  packet 
of  cigarettes  of  inferior  quality.  He  was  a 
novice  at  smoking,  having  started  the  indul- 
gence but  a  year  previously,  shortly  after  his 


HIS  FEELINGS  13 

discovery  of  the  aforementioned  remedy.  One 
of  the  humours  of  the  Fairport  boys  consisted 
in  pretending  to  "  smoke  like  Joseph  Ridhorn." 
This  was  accomplished  by  taking  in  the  smoke 
with  an  intensely  anxious  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, expelling  it  from  a  mouth  shaped  to 
resemble  that  of  an  expiring  codfish,  and  then 
spitting  out  shreds  of  tobacco. 

Mr.  Redhorn  had  not  taken  a  dozen  cau- 
tious puffs  when  a  knock  fell  on  the  door  of 
his  one-room  dwelling.  He  extinguished  the 
cigarette  carefully,  laid  it  on  the  mantelpiece, 
and  went  to  the  door. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  Maister  Banks.  Fine  nicht, 
but  a  wee  thing  cauld,"  he  said  in  polite  if  not 
friendly  accents.  "  Was  ye  wantin'  ony- 
thing?  " 

"  I  was  wantin'  to  see  you.  If  ye've  nae  ob- 
jections, I'll  come  inside  for  a  meenute,"  re- 
turned the  local  fish-merchant. 

"  Come  ben,"  said  Joseph,  wondering  what 
had  brought  the  man  to  him.  It  was  not  long 
since  they  had  parted  on  terms  the  reverse  of 
pleasant. 

"  It's  no'  ma  custom  to  interfere,"  began  Mr. 
Danks,  as  he  took  a  chair  by  the  fire;  "I'm 
sayin'  it's  no'  ma  custom  to  interfere  in  ither 
folk's  business,  but  on  this  occasion  I  feel  it's 
ma  duty." 

"  Jist  that,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn  quietly. 
"What's  the  complaint,  Maister  Danks?" 

"  There's  nae  complaint  as  faur  as  I'm  con- 


14    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

cerned,"  the  other  replied.  "  I've  merely  come 
to  inform  ye  that  ye're  bein'  deceived.  That 
Wullie  McWattie " 

"  Thenk  ye,"  interrupted  the  painter.  "  But 
I  think  we  baith  agreed  a  while  back  to  let 
that  subjec'  drap.  I  explained  then  to  ye  ma 
reason  for  takin'  on  Wullie  instead  o'  yer  sis- 
ter's laddie,  an'  I've  nae  mair  to  say  aboot  it." 

"  Oh,  but  ye'll  maybe  ha'e  mair  to  say  aboot 
it  when  ye  see  what  I've  got  in  ma  pooch,"  said 
Mr.  Danks,  with  an  unpleasant  laugh. 

"  I  ha'e  neither  cravin'  nor  curiosity  to  see 
what's  in  yer  pooch,"  the  painter  coldly  re- 
torted. "  An'  if  ye've  come  to  speak  ill  o' 
Wullie,  ye  better  save  yer  breath  to  cry  yer  fish 
wi',  Maister  Danks." 

As  it  was  some  years  since  Mr.  Danks  had 
hawked  his  wares  from  door  to  door,  and  as 
his  business  was  now  largely  wholesale,  it  was 
perhaps  natural  that  he  should  resent  the 
painter's  advice. 

"  I  speak  ill  o'  naebody,"  he  hotly  rejoined, 
"  an'  I  say  naething  excep'  I  can  prove  it.  An' 
I'm  tellin'  ye  noo  that  ye'll  sune  be  wishin'  ye 
had  ta'en  on  ma  nephew,  Peter  Shaw,  instead 
of  that  guid-for-naething  Wullie  McWattie. 
Peter  wud  ha'e  cost  ye  naething  for  a  year, 
but  I  hear  ye're  peyin'  Wullie  five  shillin's  a 
week  for  wastin'  yer  pent." 

"Wullie  has  the  makin's  o'  a  first-class 
penter,  let  me  tell  ye ! "  said  Joseph  warml}'. 
"  What  I  pey  him  is  ma  ain  business.  Ye  micht 


HIS  FEELINGS  15 

think  shame  o'  yersel'  to  come  here  objectin' 
to  the  laddie  earnin'  a  bit  siller,  when  ye  ken 
fine  hoo  badly  left  his  mither  was.  Awa'  hame, 
man;  awa'  hame  an'  think  shame  o'  yersel'! 
Ye're  as  cauld-hertit  as  yer  fish ! " 

"  Oh,  we  a'  ken  ye're  a  model  o'  cherity  to 
Fairport,  Kidhorn,"  Banks  returned,  grinning 
nastily.  "  An'  I've  nae  doot  Mistress  McWat- 
tie  thinks  a  lot  o'  ye,"  he  added,  sneering.  "  Of 
course,  we  a'  ken  that  ye  pamper  Wullie  for 
his  ain  sake." 

The  colour  rushed  to  Mr.  Redhorn's  rather 
sallow  face.  "That'll  dae!"  he  cried.  "Get 
oot  ma  hoose,  or,  by  Jupiter,  I'll  pit  ye  oot ! " 

Mr.  Banks  retreated  a  step,  grinned  once 
more,  and  drew  a  piece  of  paper,  folded  small, 
from  his  vest  pocket. 

"  This'll  let  ye  see  hoo  yer  apprentice  ad- 
mires his  cheritable  maister.  This  paper  fell 
oot  his  pooch  when  he  was  sclimmin'  a  tele- 
graph pole  on  his  road  hame  the  nicht.  I 
was  passin'  at  the  time  an'  picked  it  up  wi'oot 
him  kennin'.  I  was  gaun  to  gi'e  it  back  to  him, 
but  when  I  seen  what  it  was  I  thocht  it  con- 
cerned you  mair  nor  him.  I  hope  ye'll  enjey  it, 
Kidhorn,"  he  continued  venomously,  laying  the 
paper  on  the  table  and  backing  to  the  door. 
"  An'  I  may  as  weel  tell  ye  that  if  ye  dinna 
show  it  to  Mistress  McWattie,  I'll  dae  it,  for 
I've  made  a  copy.  An'  as  for  the  pentin'  tred, 
I  wudna  pit  ma  nephew  to  it,  no'  if  ye  offered 
him  a  pound  a  week," 


16    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  Are  ye  feenished,  ye  meeserable  charac- 
ter?" cried  Mr.  Redhorn. 

The  bang  of  the  door  was  sufficient  answer. 

"  Oh,  criftens !  "  muttered  Joseph.  "  A  body 
wud  think  the  man  had  acute  dyspepsia.  Sic 
spite !  An'  what  has  Mistress  McWattie  to  dae 
wi'  it?  Puir  wee  Wullie,  an'  him  wantin'  to  be 
a  sailor!  .  .  .  Noo  what's  in  the  paper,  I 
wonder." 

He  picked  it  from  the  table  and  opened  its 
numerous  folds.  It  was  a  page  torn  from  a 
school  exercise  book,  and  bore  writing  of  a  ju- 
venile character. 

"What's  a'  this?"  he  murmured.  And  he 
read  it  where  he  stood. 

"  '  Joseph  Redhorn  is  his  name, 
lam  glad  mine  is  not  the  same. 

Joseph  Redhorn  aye  looks  cold, 

Sis  hairy  head  is  getting  bald. 
He's  lerning  for  to  smoke  the  now, 
And  looks  as  happy  as  a  cow. 

He  takes  medicine  for  his  redhorn  nose 

And  for  the  chillblings  on  his  tose. 
jy  I  was  in  Joe  Redhorn' s  place, 
I  would  use  my  paints  to  paint  my  face.'  " 

Mr.  Redhorn's  clenched  fist  fell  with  a  crash 
on  the  table.  It  touched  the  edge  of  a  saucer 
<and  a  cup  flew  into  the  air  and  smashed  itself 
on  the  floor.  He  ground  the  fragments  under- 
foot. 

"  The  wee  rascal !  "  he  groaned  wrathfully. 
"  The  bad,  impiddent  wee  rascal.  Dod,  if  I  had 
him  here  I  wud  sort  him!  An'  I  suppose  he 


HIS  FEELINGS  17 

had  this  in  his  pooch  when  I  was  gi'ein'  him 
advice  the  day.  Joseph  Ridhorn!  ye've  been 
deceived !  Banks  was  richt — the  de'il  tak'  him ! 
Ye've  been  warmin'  a  serpent  in  yer  bosom, 
an' — an'  it's  bit  ye !  " 

He  kicked  the  remains  of  the  cup  under  the 
table,  and  went  over  to  the  easy-chair. 

"  They  say  tobacca's  soothin' !  "  he  reflected, 
as  he  relit  his  cigarette.  "  But  in  this  case  I 
doot  I'll  be  seeck  afore  I'm  soothed.  This  is 
the  last  straw ! "  he  continued,  staring  at  the 
paper  in  his  hand.  "  This  is  ma  reward !  My ! 
but  Danks  wud  be  pleased  to  get  this ! "  He 
wriggled  in  his  chair.  "  That's  the  warst  o' 
't.  It's  faur  frae  bein'  a  nice  poem,  but  I  daur- 
say  I  could  ha'e  survived  it,  if  Danks  hadna 
seen  it — an'  he's  got  a  copy,  the — the  cauld- 
hertit  gorilla!  An'  he'll  show  it  to  Mistress 
McWattie,  if  I  dinna  show  her  mine.  What 
a  predeecament !  I  suppose  Danks  thinks  she'll 
ha'e  a  guid  laugh  at  me.  I  could  endure  that. 
But  she'll  no'  laugh,  puir  thing.  She'll  be  af- 
f  rontit  at  her  son.  Oh,  me !  I  suppose  I'll  ha'e 
to  show  her  the  thing  masel',  an'  ask  her  to 
keep  it  secret.  An'  as  for  Wullie, — Guid  kens 
what  I'm  to  dae  wi'  him,  the  rascal." 

Mr.  Redhorn  took  the  cigarette  from  between 
his  teeth,  eyed  the  ragged  end  hopelessly,  and 
pitched  it  into  the  fire. 

"  He's  richt  aboot  ma  smokin'  onywey,"  he 
said  to  himself,  smiling  faintly.  "  It's  a  guid 
thing  for  him  I'm  no'  a  man  o'  wrath.  Maybe 


18    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

I'm  ower  meek.  But  I  thocht  Wullie  had  some 
feelin's.  I  never  thocht  he  wud  gang  the  length 
o'  makin'  a  mock  o'  his  maister — an'  in  poetry 
forbye !  I'll  ha'e  to  gi'e  him  the  kick  the  morn, 
though  I'm  vexed  for  his  mither.  I'm  no' 
prood,  but  I've  some  dignity,  an'  it's  mair  nor 
flesh  an'  blood  can  thole  to  keep  an  appren- 
tice that  writes  poetry  aboot  ye.  I  suppose 
it's  what  the  meenister  wud  ca'  a  satire. 
Maybe  I  better  try  anither  smoke." 

He  lit  a  fresh  cigarette  and  relapsed  into 
gloomy  reflections  and  forebodings. 

But  not  for  long.  There  was  a  knock  at  the 
door. 

"Wha's  this  noo?"  he  muttered  angrily. 
"  Bootless  it'll  be  Danks  back  to  see  hoo  I've 
enjeyed  the  poem.  But  he'll  no'  get  inside  ma 
hoose  the  nicht.  Bloodshed's  no'  in  ma  line." 

Mr.  Redhorn  rose  and  went  to  the  door. 

"  Wha's  there?  "  he  called. 

"  It's  me,"  replied  a  youthful  voice. 

"  Criftens !  it's  Wullie !  "  said  the  painter  to 
himself.  He  opened  the  door. 

"  Was  ye  wantin'  ony thing? "  he  asked 
shortly. 

"  Mither  was  bakin'  scones,  an'  she  tell't  me 
to  bring  ye  thur;"  and  Willie  McWattie  held 
out  a  parcel,  warm  to  the  hand. 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Redhorn,  taken  aback. 
"  Ye — ye  best  come  ben  for  a  meenute  an'  rest 
yersel',"  he  said,  recovering  himself.  "  This  is 
rale  kind  o'  yer  mither." 


HIS  FEELINGS  19 

Willie  came  in. 

"  Ye'll  tell  yer  mither  I'm  greatly  obleeged  to 
her,  an'  exceedin'ly  gratified  at  bein'  remem- 
bered," continued  Mr.  Redhorn,  closing  the 
door.  "  Sit  doon,  laddie,  sit  doon.  Aw,  ye're 
lukin'  at  the  wreckage  ablow  the  table.  That's 
a  souvenir  o'  an  angry  passion.  Never  heed  it. 
Tits!  what  ails  ye,  Wullie?" 

The  boy's  face  went  scarlet  and  then  white. 
He  turned  as  if  to  flee. 

"  Oh,  it's  the  poetry,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  lift- 
ing the  paper  from  the  easy-chair.  "  I  sud  ha'e 
something  to  say  to  ye." 

Half -dazed,  and  afraid,  the  boy  took  the  seat 
given  him.  His  host  sat  down,  facing  him.  The 
painter's  hands  trembled,  but  his  voice  was 
calm. 

"So  ye're  a  poet,  Wullie  McWattie?" 

Willie  shrank,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Noo,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  holding  up  the  pa- 
per as  if  to  enjoy  every  word,  "  I  dinna  profess 
to  be  a  critique  o'  poetry,  an'  maybe  I'm  preju- 
diced, but  it  strikes  me  there's  something  wrang 
with  this  parteec'lar  poem.  It's  maybe  true, 
but  I  canna  help  thinkin'  it's  what  sportin'  folk 
ca'  ablow  the  belt — in  ither  words,  it's  no'  fair. 
What  dae  ye  think  yersel',  Wullie?" 

He  paused,  but  Willie  hung  his  head,  speech- 
less. 

"  To  begin  wi',"  Mr.  Redhorn  resumed,  "  the 
name  I  bear  is  maybe  no'  distinguished,  but 
I've  never  heard  onything  to  mak'  me  ashamed 


20    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

o'  't.  As  faur  as  I  ken,  there  was  never  a 
Ridhorn  hanged.  I've  nae  objections  to  ye 
respectin'  yer  ain  name,  Wullie  McWattie,  but 
ye  needna  despise  ithers.  Then,  as  regairds  ma 
personal  appearance,  I  canna  deny  the  truth 
o'  yer  remarks :  I  can  but  regret  that  ye  hadna 
a  bonnier  theme  for  yer  poem.  As  for  ma 
smokin',  ye  maun  jist  try  to  excuse  me  bein' 
slow  at  the  learnin'.  If  ever  you're  slow  at 
onything,  Wullie,  jist  remember  me.  Con- 
cernin'  yer  observations  on  the  meddicine,  I've 
never  expectit  sympathy  for  ma  dyspepsia  an' 
chilblains;  an'  I  micht  add,  I've  never  gotten 
ony.  But  d'ye  ken,  I've  whiles  thocht  lately 
that  Wullie  McWattie  micht  ha'e  been  an  ex- 
ception to  the  general  rule?  Wasna  that  unco 
stupit  o'  me?  " 

The  boy  had  turned  sideways  on  his  chair; 
now  his  arms  were  resting  on  the  back,  and  his 
face  was  hidden  in  them. 

"  I — I  jist  done  it  in  fun.  I  didna  mean  it," 
he  mumbled. 

In  silence  Mr.  Redhorn  folded  up  the 
paper. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  done  it,"  said  Willie  in  a 
choked  voice.  His  shoulders  heaved. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  painter.  He  rose 
and  went  to  the  bowed  figure,  and  laid  a  hand 
on  the  tousled  head. 

"  I'm  gaun  to  try  to  forget  a'  aboot  it,  Wul- 
lie," he  said  softly.  "  An',  maybe,  when  ye're 
a  sailor,  ye'll  mind " 


HIS  FEELINGS  21 

"  Are  ye  gaun  to  pit  me  awa'  ?  Aw,  dinna 
dae  that,  Maister  Ridhorn,  dinna  dae  that ! " 

"  But  ye're  no'  wantin'  to  wark  wi'  me  at 
the  pentin'." 

"  I  am,  I  am !  I  promised  ma  mither  the 
nicht  that  I  wild  think  nae  mair  o'  the  sea,  an' 
I  was  gaun  to  tell  ye — she  said  I  was  to  tell 
ye — when  I  seen  the " 

"  I'm  gled  to  hear  ye're  gaun  to  staun'  by 
yer  mither,  Wullie,"  said  the  painter  gravely. 
"  Ye'll  never  regret  daein'  that." 

"  But  I'll  dae  ma  best  at  the  pentin',  if  ye'll 
keep  me.  Please  keep  me,  Maister  Kidhorn  I  " 

"  Wull  ye  try  to  love  everything  ye  touch  wi' 
the  brush?" 

"  I'll  try.    'Deed,  an'  I'll  try." 

"  Aweel,  Wullie,  we'll  shake  hauns  on  that." 

While  the  boy  got  over  his  emotion,  Mr.  Red- 
horn  foraged  in  his  cupboard. 

"  Here  a  bottle  o'  soda-water,"  he  said  at 
last.  "  I  used  to  tak'  soda-water  when  I  com- 
menced the  smokin'.  It  was  revivin'  in  its  ef- 
fec'.  But,  as  a  drink,  it  doesna  cheer  ony  mair 
nor  it  inebriates.  It's  no'  sae  bad,  though,  if 
ye  pit  a  tate  jam  or  jeely  in  it.  Wait,  an'  I'll 
let  ye  try  it." 

Presently  he  handed  his  visitor  a  tumbler  of 
pink  and  sparkling  liquid.  "  Taste  it.  ... 
Hoo's  that?" 

"  It's  guid !  "  said  Willie  enthusiastically. 

"  Weel,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  looking  gratified, 
"it's  maybe  no'  up  to  its  appearance,  but  it's 


22    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

safe.  'An'  noo,  Wullie,"  he  continued,  seating 
himself  once  more  in  his  easy-chair,  "  I  want 
to  ask  ye  a  question.  D'ye  fin'  it  easy  to  write 
poetry?  I'm  no'  referrin'  to  this  poem," — he 
drew  the  paper  from  his  pocket  and  replaced 
it, — "  that's  a'  in  the  past.  But  is't  easy, 
speakin'  ginerally  ?  " 

The  boy  recovered  from  a  slight  fit  of  chok- 
ing. "  Mphm !  "  he  replied,  at  last,  awkwardly. 

"  Ha'e  ye  wrote  ither  poems  ?  " 

Willie  nodded  and  smiled  bashfully. 

"  Ony  aboot  the  folk  in  Fairport?  " 

"  Plenty !  "  Willie's  manner  became  a  trifle 
jaunty. 

Mr.  Redhorn  paused.  Then  he  said  in  a 
casual  voice,  "  I  suppose  ye  never  did  yin 
aboot — a — Peter  Danks,  the  fish-monger." 

Willie  shook  his  head. 

The  painter  sighed. 

"  But  I  could  dae  yin,"  said  Willie. 

"  But  it  wud  ta'  ye  a  lang  while,"  Mr.  Red- 
horn  said,  feeling  ashamed  of  himself. 

"  Aboot  five  meenutes."  Willie  was  himself 
again. 

His  host  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Wullie,  can 
ye  keep  a  secret?" 

"  Fine." 

" Dae  ye  like  Danks?  " 

"Middlin'  ...  I  hate  him.  A'  the  boys 
hate  him." 

"  I — I'll  explain  the  'hale  thing  to  ye  anither 
time,  but  in  the  meantime  I — I'll  gi'e  ye  a  shil- 


HIS  FEELINGS  23 

lin'  an'  ma  blessin'  if  ye'll  write  the  poem  re- 
ferred to,  wi'oot  delay." 

Willie  gulped  the  last  of  his  drink.  "Can 
ye  gi'e  us  a  bit  paper?  "  he  said  a  little  shyly. 
"  I've  a  pincil." 

Mr.  Redhorn  found  paper,  and  cleared  a 
place  at  the  table. 

"  It  needna  be  complimentary,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"Eh?" 

"  I  mean,  ye — ye  dinna  need  to — to  praise 
him." 

"  I  never  praise  onybody,"  said  Willie. 

"  I  micht  ha'e  kent  that,"  said  his  master. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Willie,  his  face  red,  his 
eyes  very  bright,  handed  the  paper  to  his 
host. 

"  I'll  ha'e  to  copy  it  oot  fresh.  Maybe  ye'll 
no'  be  able  to  read  it,"  he  said  apologetically. 

"  I'll  manage  fine,"  said  Mr.  Eedhorn,  shak- 
ing with  excitement. 

"  '  Peter  Danks  sells  fish  in  dozens, 
The  Ji»/i  and  him  are  like  as  cousins 

And  when  you  meet  him  on  the  road 

You  canno  tell  himfrae  a  cod. 
But  Peter  thinks  he's  awful  braw 
Wlien  he  goes  corting  old  Miss  Caw. 

And  all  the  people  laugh  and  wonder 

If  she'll  get  catched  by  the  Fishmonger. 
When  he  was  young  he  used  to  cry, 
"  Fine  caller  haddies  !     Come  and  buy  !  " 

He  used  to  bow  to  anybody 

From  his  wee  cart  that  was  drawn  by  a  cuddy. 


24    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

But  now  to  proud  is  Peter  Danks, 
If  you  buy  a  fish  you  get  little  thanks. 
If  I  had  Peter's  face  on  me 
I  would  jump  forever  into  the  sea.' " 

Mr.  Redhorn  burst  into  almost  hysterical 
laughter,  alarming  the  boy  who  had  rarely 
heard  his  master  laugh  in  the  quietest  fashion. 

"Wullie,"  he  cried,  when  the  fit  had  sub- 
sided, "  here  yer  shillin',  an'  may  the  Lord 
mak'  ma  blessin'  worthy  o'  sic  a  genius.  Ye've 
saved  me  frae  an  appallin'  predeecament.  I'll 
tell  ye  aboot  it  anither  day,  but  I  maun  gang 
oot  the  noo — at  ony  rate,  as  sune  as  I've  made 
a  copy  of  this  sublime  poem.  Gi'e  yer  mither 
ma  best  respec's  an'  thanks.  Haud  yer  tongue 
aboot  a'  that  has  transpired  the  nicht.  I'll  see 
ye  at  yer  wark  the  morn's  mornin'.  Guid-nicht, 
ma  laddie,  guid-nicht — an'  mind,  ye're  to  love 
everything  ye  pit  a  brush  to." 

"Hoo  d'ye  like  that,  Maister  Banks?"  in- 
quired Joseph,  breathing  hard. 

"  I'll  let  that  wee  scamp  ken  hoo  I  like  it," 
snarled  the  furious  fish-merchant. 

"  If  ye  lay  a  finger  on  Wullie,  I'll  ha'e  a  thoo- 
sand  copies  prentit,  an'  scatter  them  broadcast 
through  Fairport.  Mind  that!  Noo  jist  hand 
ower  the  ither  poem."  Mr.  Redhorn  spoke  very 
sternly  for  so  meek  a  man.  "  Ye're  hoisted  wi' 
yer  ain  petrol ! "  he  added  on  receiving  the  pa- 
per so  urgently  desired.  "  An'  if  ye're  wice, 
ye'll  never  mention  poetry  as  lang's  ye  bide  in 
Fairport." 


HIS  FEELINGS  25 

He  turned  and  left  the  discomfited  fish- 
monger, dumb,  on  his  doorstep. 

"  Crif  tens !  "  murmured  the  painter  when  he 
reached  his  easy-chair  once  more.  "  I'm 
thinkin'  Wullie  McWattie  was  born  wi'  a  siller 
pen  in  his  mooth.  .  .  .  An'  efter  a',  a  pen's 
no'  sae  different  frae  a  brush!  Dod,  I  maun 
ha'e  anither  ceegarette.  .  .  .  Brithers  o'  the 
brush !  Ay,  that's  the  expression  I  was  tryin' 
to  mind!  Brithers  o'  the  brush!  He's  a  gey 
wee  brither,  but  that's  jist  a'  the  mair  reason 
for  me  to  luk  efter  him,  an'  no'  be  ower  severe 
wi'  him.  Ay,  ay !  " 


II 

HIS  RESPONSIBILITY 

«"%  T  OO,  Wullie,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  eyeing 
l^kj  his  apprentice  seriously,  "  here  the 
pent,  here  the  brush,  an'  here  the  hen- 
hoose.  Can  I  depend  on  ye?  " 
"  Uh-ha,"  replied  the  boy  readily. 
"  Weel,  I  hope  I  can.  I'm  sweirt  to  leave  ye 
yer  lane,  but  if  I  dinna  get  Maister  Jordan's 
accoont  made  oot  this  efternune,  an'  presentit 
this  vera  nicht,  I'll  no'  see  the  colour  o'  his 
money  this  year.  I've  just  heard  that  him  an' 
his  faymily's  gaun  back  to  Glesca  the  morn's 
mornin';  an',  as  I  ken  frae  experience,  there's 
nae  use  sendin'  accoonts  efter  him.  It's  jist 
wastin'  guid  postage  stamps,  for  he'll  let  the 
accoont  lie  till  he  comes  back  next  simmer. 
So  I've  got  to  baird  the  lion  in  his  den,  or  the 
bird'll  be  flown.  Credit,  Wullie,  is  yin  o'  the 
curses  o'  ceevileezation.  The  mair  ye  gi'e,  the 
less  ye  get.  Whiles  the  sad,  sad  words  l  to  ac- 
coont rendered  '  gets  on  ma  brain — like  the  pat- 
terns o'  some  o'  the  auld-fashioned  bedroom 
papers  that  the  gentry  used  to  pit  on  the  wa's 
o'  the  guest-chambers,  so  as  the  guests  wud 
come  doon  to  breakfast  wi'  their  heids  fair 
26 


HIS  RESPONSIBILITY  27 

bizzin',  ready  to  eat  onything.  Ay,  Wullie,  it's 
a  bad  thing  credit;  but  I  doot  the  pentin', 
paper-hangin',  and  decoratin'  tred'll  never  man- 
age cash  terms — in  this  warld  onywey.  Ye'll 
appreciate  ma  feelin's  better  when  ye've  a 
business  o'  yer  ain,  an'  when  ye've  a  ledger  that 
gars  ye  groan  at  every  third  page.  Dinna  pit 
sae  much  pent  on  yer  brush,  laddie!  " 

The  boy  made  haste  to  show  that  he  accepted 
the  reproof,  and  Mr.  Redhorn  continued — 

"  Ma  ledger  is  a  record  o'  joys  an'  sorrows, 
but  maistly  the  latter.  I'll  let  ye  see  it  some 
nicht,  an'  gi'e  ye  the  details  o'  some  o'  the 
entries.  Ye  wudna  believe  hoo  faur  a  human 
bein'  can  streetch  his  credit.  Cahootchy's  nae- 
thing  to  it!  I'm  no'  gaun  to  mention  names, 
but  I'll  tell  ye  an  anecdote  aboot  a  rale  stylish 
gent  that  used  to  ha'e  a  villa  in  Fairport,  an' 
cam'  here  every  simmer.  He  was  reputit  to  be 
worth  thoosan's,  an'  dootless  he  was — to  some 
folk.  He  wore  a  gless  in  yin  o'  his  e'en  an' 
spats  on  the  baith  o'  his  feet,  an'  he  lukit 
as  prood  as  a  black  horse  at  a  big  funeral. 
He  was  an  awfu'  yin  for  washin'  hisseP,  an'  he 
got  me  to  pent  the  bath.  The  bath  was  oreegi- 
nally  pen  tit  imitation  marble ;  an'  a  bonny  bath 
it  was!  I  pentit  it  masel'  for  the  former 
owner.  Of  course,  Wullie,  ye  ken  that  marble 
baths  is  nae  longer  fashionable;  but  at  that 
time  they  was  conseedered  genteel  enough,  if 
no'  exac'ly  the  rage.  Hooever,  ma  stylish  gen- 
tleman didna  like  it — in  fac'  he  said  he  couldna 


thole  the  sicht  o'  it;  an'  he  ca'ed  the  marble 
pottit-meat  to  ma  face,  an'  said  he  wud  as  sune 
ha'e  Bob  Roy  tartan.  See,  Wullie!  Dinna 
slam  the  pent  on  as  if  it  cost  naething ! " 

Willie  became  more  careful. 

"Ye  needna  scrimp  it  either,"  said  his 
master.  "  Mak'  as  nice  a  job  as  ye  can,  Wullie. 
It's  maybe  only  a  hen-hoose,  an'  a  puir  ram- 
shackle thing  forbye" — Mr.  Redhorn  looked 
round  to  see  that  the  owner,  Mrs.  Milne,  was 
not  within  earshot — "  but  it's  aye  a  job,  an' 
ony  job's  worth  daein'  weel.  If  it's  only  a 
hen-hoose  ye're  pentin'  the  day,  it'll  be  a 
mansion-hoose  some  day — ye  can  aye  think  o' 
that !  But  I  was  tellin'  ye  aboot  the  bath.  .  .  . 
A  weel,  I  jist  swallowed  the  insultin'  remarks 
aboot  the  pottit-meat,  etceetera — as  ye've  got  to 
swallow  mony  remarks  in  the  pentin'  tred — 
an'  speirt  what  he  wantit  done  to  the  bath. 
'  Pure  white,'  says  he,  an'  tell't  me  he  was  in 
the  habit  o'  takin'  a  bath  every  mornin'  an' 
evenin'.  '  Pure  white  it'll  be,'  says  I,  '  but  it'll 
tak'  a  wheen  coats  o'  pent  an'  enamel  to  kill 
the  marble.'  I  didna  say  l  to  staun'  the  usage ' 
as  I  micht  weel  ha'e  done.  He  tell't  me  to  pit 
on  as  mony  coats  as  I  liket,  an'  efterwards  to 
come  an'  touch  up  the  bath  every  month,  for  he 
couldna  thole  the  least  sign  o'  deteriaration  in 
ony  shape  or  form."  Here  Mr.  Redhorn  sighed. 
"When  ye're  aulder,  Wullie,"  he  went  on, 
"  ye'll  dootless  discover  that  humanity  includes 
a  numerosity  o'  persons  exceedin'  sensitive  in 


HIS  RESPONSIBILITY  29 

regaird  to  everything  but  an — accoont  ren- 
dered." 

"  Did  he  no'  pey  ye  for  pentin'  his  bath?  "  in- 
quired the  apprentice,  pausing  in  his  work. 

"  Conteenue  yer  operations,"  said  Mr.  Red- 
horn  a  trifle  shortly. 

Willie  grinned  and  applied  his  brush  to  the 
hen-house. 

"  What  I'm  tellin'  ye,"  said  his  master 
solemnly.,  "  is  for  yer  instruction — no'  for  ma 
pleesure.  May  it  learn  ye  to  beware  o'  pairties 
wi'  single  glesses  an'  dooble  spats,  ma  laddie, 
espaycially  when  they're  extra  parteec'lar 
aboot  their  baths.  .  .  .  Aweel,  that  bath  took 
three  coats  o'  white  leed  an'  twa  o'  the  best 
enamel  afore  I  got  it  white.  An'  then  his  lord- 
ship tried  for  to  mak'  a  joke  aboot  pittin'  ma 
pent  in  the  oven  an'  bringin'  it  oot  pastry — 
meanin',  of  course,  that  I  was  in  the  habit  o' 
mixin  flour  wi'  ma  pent  to  gi'e  it  body.  I  tell't 
him,  sarcastic-like,  that  I  never  used  onything 
but  tapioca,  an'  that  dried  him  up  like  ter- 
pentine." 

"  Dae  penters  whiles  pit  flour  in  their  pent?  " 
asked  Willie. 

"  Stric'  honesty  has  been  occasionally  foun' 
wantin'  even  in  penters,"  returned  Mr.  Redhorn 
regretfully.  "  But  that's  no'  the  p'int  in  the 
meantime.  The  p'int  is  that  I  pentit  the  bath 
as  per  contrac',  an'  the  proprietor  said  he  was 
satisfied,  as  he  micht  weel  ha'e  been.  I  warned 
him  no'  to  use  it  for  three  days,  so  as  to  let 


30    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

the   enamel    get   hard — tak'    a   note   o'    that, 

Wullie !"• 

"  I've  nae  pincil." 
"  I  sud  ha'e  said  a  mental  note." 
"What's  that,  Maister  Ridhorn?" 
"  Criftens,  laddie !    I'm  beginnin'  to  ha'e  ma 
doots   aboot   ye   passin'    the   sixth    standard. 
Keep  mind  o'  what  I  said  aboot  lettin'  the 
enamel  get  hard.    Ye'll  maybe  get  the  job  o' 
pentin'  a  bath  some  fine  day.    Ye  never  can  tell 
what's  afore  ye." 
"  I  wnd  like  fine  to  pent  a  bath." 
"  Weel,  dinna  let  yer  ambeetion  for  the  fu- 
ture interfere  wi'  yer  wark  for  the  present. 
Pey  attention  to  yer  hen-hoose.  .    .   .  As  I  was 
tellin'  ye,  I  warned  the  proprietor  no'  to  use 
the  bath  for  three  days.    But  he  was  as  wake 
as  a  man  that  canna  resist  the  drink.    He  was 
a  perfec'  slave  to  his  bath.    An'  afore  twinty- 
fower  'oors  had  passed,  he  wras  at  his  abolutions 
again ! " 

"  Did  he  stick  ? "  cried  Willie,  deeply  in- 
terested. 

"  Na,  he  didna  stick.  The  fool  isna  aye  re- 
wardit  accordin'  to  his  folly.  But  the  enamel 
was  spiled,  an'  ma  services  was  again  re- 
quested. Weel,  wi'  the  help  o'  patience,  saun'- 
paper,  an'  mair  enamel,  I  got  the  bath  pit 
richt,  an'  heard  naething  furder  for  a  week  or 
twa.  Then  I  was  summoned  in  hot  haste,  as 
they  say  in  the  history  book,  to  see  what  the 
proprietor's  leddy  had  done  to  the  bath.  She 


HIS  RESPONSIBILITY  31 

was  an  amature  penter,  Wullie;  the  kin'  o' 
penter  that'll  gi'e  ye  trouble  when  ye  come  to 
man's  estate.  The  amature  penter  is  usually  a 
female " 

"  But  what's  an  amature  penter,  Maister  Bid- 
horn?" 

"  An  amature  penter,  Wullie,  is  a  genteel 
person  that  thinks  ye  can  save  money  by 
wastin'  pent.  As  I  said,  she's  usually  a  female 
— which  is  providential,  for  a  female  hasna  the 
strength  to  dae  the  awfu'  things  a  male  ama- 
ture could  execute.  She  usually  confines  her- 
sel'  to  pentin'  cogly  stools  an'  wee  shoogly 
tables  an'  the  like,  but  whiles  she  losses  her 
heid  an'  tries  hoose-pentin'.  But  we'll  no' 
dwell  on  that  the  noo.  I'll  tell  ye  aboot  some 
amatures  anither  time." 

"  But  what  did  the  leddy  dae  to  the  bath?  " 

"  Ruined  it.  There  was  a  bit  shelf  abin  the 
bath — the  kin'  o'  shelf  the  gentry  uses  for 
keepin'  their  cosmetics  an'  auld  meddicine 
bottles  on — an'  the  leddy  got  it  intil  her  heid 
that  the  shelf  wud  be  ornamental  as  weel  as 
usefu',  if  she  pentit  it  pale  pink.  So  she  bocht 
a  saxpenny  tin  o'  pink  enamel  and  a  brush 
that  cast  its  hairs  at  every  stroke,  an'  com- 
menced operations.  Weel,  to  mak'  a  lang  story 
short,  she  let  the  tin  fa'  in  the  bath.  Then  I 
suppose  she  was  feart  to  face  her  man — the 
abolutionist — for  she  workit  at  the  mess  wi' 
terpentine  till  she  rubbit  richt  through  to  the 
oreeginal  marble.  I  never  seen  sic  a  bath — 


never !  I  was  vexed  for  the  leddy.  She  wantit 
me  to  pit  the  bath  richt  afore  the  evenin?  boat 
cam'  in,  but,  of  course,  that  wasna  possible. 
In  fac',  the  job  took  mair  nor  a  week.  Crif tens ! 
it  was  a  dear,  dear  bath ! " 

"  Did  ye  never  get  peyed,  Maister  Ridhorn  ?  " 
"  Pey  attention  to  yer  hen-hoose,  Wullie !  I 
got  peyed — in  kind,  as  the  sayin'  is,  though 
there  was  naethin'  kind  aboot  it  that  I  could 
see.  Efter  renderin'  the  accoont  eleeven  times, 
I  had  a  ca'  frae  the  abolutionist.  He  said  he 
had  jist  been  passin'  an'  had  drappit  in  to  speir 
if  there  wasna  ony  discoont  to  come  aff  the 
accoont.  I  explained  that  there  was  nae 
miracles  nooadays.  Then  he  said  business  was 
bad,  but  bein'  an  amature  artist  hissel',  he  pro- 
posed to  pey  me  wi'  fower  picturs.  He  was 
leavin'  Fairport,  so  he  wud  ha'e  nae  objections 
to  me  offerin'  the  picturs  for  sale  efter  his  de- 
parture. Weel,  efter  makin'  some  enquiries,  I 
seen  it  was  a  case  o'  the  picturs  or  naething. 
Oh,  it's  a  queer  warld,  laddie :  but  it  wudna  be 
sa  queer  if  there  was  nae  credit." 
"  What  did  ye  dae  wi'  the  picturs  ?  " 
"  I  managed  to  sell  the  frames  to  Ogilvie  the 
grocer  at  Kinlochan.  He  refused  to  buy  the 
picturs  wi'oot  kennin'  what  they  representit; 
an'  I  had  forgot  to  speir  that  at  the  artist.  So 
the  picturs  is  still  in  the  hoose.  But  I  maun  awa' 
an'  see  efter  Maister  Jordan's  accoont.  Pey 
attention  to  the  hen-hoose,  Wullie,  an'  dinna 
frichten  the  hens.  Mistress  Milne  wud  be  rale 


HIS  RESPONSIBILITY  33 

angry.    When  ye're  feenished,  ye  can  leave  the 
pent  in  the  washin-hoose,  an'  I'll  meet  ye  here 
at  seeven  o'clock,  prompt.,  the  morn's  mornin'. 
Noo,  can  I  depend  on  ye  ?  " 
"  Ay,"  replied  Willie,  and  meant  it. 

Mr.  Redhorn  was  absorbed  in  a  troublesome 
calculation — 7  3-4  hours  at  lid.  per  hour.  The 
artistic  temperament  does  not,  as  a  rule,  revel 
in  arithmetic,  and  the  painter  had  mislaid  his 
ready  reckoner.  His  right  hand,  holding  the 
pen,  was  poised  in  the  air,  so  that  the  super- 
fluous ink  overran  his  first  and  second  fingers 
to  their  second  joints;  his  left  hand  rubbed 
the  point  of  his  nose  almost  savagely ;  his  legs, 
beneath  the  table,  were  intertwined. 

More  than  once  had  Mr.  Redhorn  been 
asked  why  he  bothered  his  brains  over  quarter- 
hours  in  his  accounts;  why  he  did  not  deal 
simply  in  whole  numbers — so  long,  of  course,  as 
the  whole  numbers  were  on  the  right  side  as 
far  as  he  was  concerned.  To  which  query  Mr. 
Redhorn  was  wont  to  reply  with  an  anecdote 
of  a  painter  of  his  acquaintance  who  had  built 
himself  a  fine  house  with  the  proceeds  of  in- 
numerable imaginary  quarter-hours  of  labour. 
The  painter  had  then  entered  his  fine  house 
with  great  rejoicing,  only  to  receive  the  parlour 
ceiling  on  his  head,  which  had  caused  him  to 
depart  this  life  forthwith,  an  awful  example 
and  dread  warning  to  the  trade. 

"  Noo,"    muttered    Mr.    Redhorn,    "  what's 


34    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

eleeven  times  three  fardens?  Eleeven  times 
three  is  thirty-three.  Divide  by  fower.  Fowers 
into  three — '11  no  gang.  Fowers  into  thirty- 
three — oh,  what  is  it?  Criftens!  I  wish  I 
had  Wullie  here.  Fowers  into  thirty-three 
gangs " 

There  was  a  sharp  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Tits ! "  he  said,  rising,  "  I  near  had  it ! 
Wha's  this  noo?" 

Opening  the  door  he  discovered  his  customer, 
Mrs.  Milne,  in  an  obviously  high  state  of  ex- 
citement. In  fact,  the  elderly  woman  was  pale 
and  trembling. 

Without  waiting  for  an  invitation,  she 
pushed  past  him,  entered  the  room,  and  banged 
a  brown  basket  on  the  table. 

"  Oh,  mind  ma  accoonts ! "  cried  Mr.  Red- 
horn. 

"  Accoonts ! "  shouted  Mrs.  Milne,  whose  ex- 
citement now  appeared  to  be  that  of  wrath. 
"  Is't  accoonts  ye're  sayin'?  Weel,  I've  a  bonny 
accoont  to  settle  wi'  you  this  nicht,  Joseph 
Ridhorn ! " 

"  Whisht,  whisht,  Mistress  Milne,  if  ye 
please,"  implored  the  painter,  closing  the  door 
and  advancing  to  the  table.  "  Folk'll  hear  ye. 
Ye'll  create  a  scandal  in  Fairport.  What  can  I 
dae  for  ye?  Is  there  onything  wrang?" 

"  Onything  wrang !  "  screamed  the  woman. 
"  Onything  wrang !  Onything — 

Mr.  Redhorn  rushed  across  the  floor  to  close 
the  window. 


HIS  RESPONSIBILITY  35 

"For  ony  favour,  Mistress  Milne,  dinna 
speak  sae  lood.  Scandals  is  awfu'  easy  creatit 
in  Fairport.  What's  a-do?  Cawm  yersel'. 
Explain  yersel'— 

Mrs.  Milne  pointed  a  shaking  finger  at  the 
brown  basket.  "  Open  it !  "  she  commanded,  in 
a  voice  choked  with  rage. 

Mr.  Redhorn  laid  his  hand  on  the  basket.  A 
strange  sound  came  from  within. 

"  What's  in  the  basket  ?  "  he  inquired,  hesi- 
tating. 

"Open  it!" 

The  painter  could  not  disobey.  He  lifted  the 
lid. 

"  Oh,  criftens !  " 

He  started  back.  Something  bounced  forth, 
flashed  past  his  eyes,  alighted  on  the  floor,  and 
from  thence  bounded  on  to  the  edge  of  the  sink 
at  the  window.  There  it  came  to  rest,  emitting 
weird  yet  familiar  sounds. 

"  It's  a  hen !  "  gasped  Mr.  Redhorn,  his  hand 

to  his  brow.  "  It's  merely  a "  And  there 

he  halted  abruptly. 

For  it  was  not  merely  a  hen.  It  was  a  hen 
such  as  the  world  has  probably  never  seen, — a 
hen  with  brilliant  green  plumage  of  surpassing 
glossiness.  Its  neck  alone  was  a  dirty  white. 

Mrs.  Milne  preserved  a  grim  silence  as  she 
watched  the  truth  dawn  on  the  unhappy 
painter. 

He  clutched  at  a  straw  of  hope.  "  Hoo — hoo 
did  it  get  the  paint  on  it  ?  "  he  asked. 


36    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  Wi'  a  brush,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

"Wha  done  it?" 

"  Ye  ken  fine  wha  done  it !  " 

"  Did  ye — did  ye  catch  him?  " 

"  I  wish  I  had !  " 

Mr.  Redhorn  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  say. 
His  thoughts  were  too  angry  and  bitter  for 
speech. 

A  minute  passed.  "  Weel,  what  are  ye  gaun 
to  dae  aboot  ma  hen?"  said  Mrs.  Milne 
harshly.  "  Ye're  responsible  for  yer  appren- 
tice's damage,  I  suppose." 

"  I'm  no'  denyin'  it,  Mistress  Milne,"  re- 
turned the  painter,  rousing  himself.  "  I'm  ex- 
ceedin'  vexed  aboot  the  mishap,  an'  I  tender 
ye  ma  apologies.  I'll  gi'e  ye  some  terpentine  to 
tak'  the  pent  aff.  It's  no'  near  dry  yet,  an'— 

"  Keep  yer  terpentine  an'  yer  tender  apolo- 
gies," she  interrupted  him  unkindly.  "  I  want 
to  ken  what  ye're  prepared  to  gi'e  for  the 
hen." 

"  Gi'e  for  the  hen ! "  exclaimed  Joseph  in 
astonishment.  "  But  I'm  no'  needin'  a  hen. 
I've  nae  place  to  keep  it." 

"  That's  nane  o'  ma  business.  The  hen's 
ruined,  an'  you're  the  responsible  pairty." 

Mr.  Redhorn  attempted  to  argue,  but  he 
was  no  match  for  Mrs.  Milne. 

"  I'll  gi'e  ye  twa  shillin's,"  he  said  sulkily  at 
last. 

"  Twa  shillin's !  Twa  shillin's  for  the  best 
layer  I  ever  had!  A  hen  that  lays  twa  eggs 


HIS  RESPONSIBILITY  37 

for  every  blank!  Na,  na!  If  ye'll  no'  mak  it 
five  shillin's,  I'll  gang  to  the  laddie's  mither, 
an " 

Mr.  Redhorn  took  out  his  purse.  He  would 
not  have  Willie's  mother  bothered. 

"  What  aboot  the  price  o'  pentin'  yer  hen- 
hoose,  Mrs.  Milne?"  he  inquired,  fingering  the 
silver. 

"  We'll  see  aboot  that  when  the  job's 
finished,"  she  replied. 

Joseph  sighed.  Willie  had  been  shirking  his 
work  as  well  as  misbehaving. 

"  There  the  money,"  he  said  sadly.  "  I'll  no' 
detain  ye."  He  crossed  to  the  door,  and  un- 
fastened it. 

Mrs.  Milne's  eyes  sparkled,  and  her  face  be- 
came wreathed  in  smiles.  "  Ye're  an  honour- 
able man,  Joseph  Ridhorn,"  she  said  gra- 
ciously. "  I  aye  said  ye  was  that !  Maybe  ye'll 
manage  to  get  the  pent  aff  yer  hen  afore  it  gets 
diseased.  I  hope  ye  will.  It  seems  to  be  get- 
tin'  stiff-like,"  she  added,  with  a  careless  glance 
at  the  fowl  which  was  still  brooding  on  the  edge 
of  the  sink.  "  That'll  be  the  pent  dryin',  nae 
doot.  Well,  I'll  bid  ye  guid-nicht,  an'  thenk  ye 
for  yer  honourable  treatment."  She  picked  up 
the  basket,  and  moved  to  the  threshold. 

Mr.  Redhorn  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and 
returned  to  the  table.  The  ink-bottle  had  been 
upset  by  the  basket. 

He  groaned,  and  lifted  his  eyes  till  they 
rested  on  the  victim  of  juvenile  cruelty. 


38    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  What  am  I  to  dae  wi'  ye,  ye  puir  innocent 
monstrosity?"  he  asked  mournfully,  advancing 
towards  the  window. 

The  hen  gave  a  frightened  cackle,  endeav- 
oured to  fly,  and  fell  to  the  floor.  The  paint 
was  beginning  to  do  more  than  its  work. 

"  Dinna  be  feart,"  whispered  Joseph  hoarsely 
but  kindly.  "  I'll  no'  hurt  ye."  With  an  old 
newspaper  in  his  hands  he  pursued  it  gently 
round  the  room  several  times;  but  though  its 
wings  were  hampered  its  legs  were  nimble 
enough. 

"  Maybe  it's  hungry,  puir  beast,"  reflected 
Mr.  Redhorn,  halting  and  rubbing  his  long 
nose.  He  procured  a  piece  of  bread,  and  scat- 
tered the  crumbs  on  the  floor. 

"  Pease,  pease !  "  he  cried  softly.  "  Pease, 
pease!  Tits!  That's  what  they  say  to  doos! 
Here!  Chee,  chee,  chee!  Na!  that's  no'  it 
either.  Aw!  I've  got  it  noo!  Here,  tewky! 
Here  breid  for  ye !  Tewky,  tewky,  puir  tewky, 
dinna  be  feart!  Tak'  yer  meat,  an'  I'll  get  the 
terpentine  ready.  I  sud  ha'e  thocht  o'  that 
first." 

Mr.  Redhorn  disappeared  into  a  cupboard. 
The  hen,  obedient  to  its  ruling  passion,  began 
to  pick  up  the  crumbs.  Mr.  Redhorn  came  out 
with  a  can  of  turpentine  and  a  bundle  of  rags, 
and  the  hen  fled  to  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
Mr.  Redhorn  laid  the  can  and  the  rags  on  the 
sink-board,  and  retired  behind  the  cupboard 
door.  Presently  the  hen  resumed  feeding.  A 


HIS  RESPONSIBILITY  39 

minute  later  the  painter  fell  upon  it  with 
the  newspaper,  and  after  a  struggle  secured 
it. 

And  just  then  some  one  tapped  at  the 
door. 

With  a  groan  of  despair,  he  bundled  the  ani- 
mated parcel  into  the  cupboard. 

"  Mistress  McWattie !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Red- 
horn,  in  a  fluttering  voice. 

The  comely  widow  on  the  doorstep  looked  at 
him  with  troubled  eyes.  "  I  wantit  to  see  ye 
for  a  meenute,"  she  said,  and  glanced  around 
her. 

The  painter  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his 
face. 

"  Come  ben,"  he  said,  with  an  effort. 

"  I  wantit  to  see  ye  aboot  Wullie,  Maister 
Ridhorn,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  at  his 
offer  of  a  chair. 

"  Jist  that,"  said  Joseph,  speaking  with 
nervous  rapidity.  "  Ye're  wantin'  to  ken  hoo 
he's  gettin'  on  at  his  tred.  I've  aye  been  mean- 
in'  to  gi'e  ye  a  ca',  Mistress  McWattie,  but  I've 
been  unco  thrang  lately.  But  I  can  assure  ye 
that  yer  laddie's  gettin'  on  spendid — fair 
magneeficent.  He's  rale  quick  at  the  up-tak', 
an'  he's  got  rale  guid  taste  for  a  young  yin. 
Oh,  I  can  assure — 

A  frightful  din  arose  in  the  cupboard. 

"  Oh,  that — that's  jist  the  cat,  Mistress  Mc- 
Wattie. It — it's  gettin'  punished  for  stealin', 


40    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

ye  ken.  But  we'll  no'  heed  it  the  noo.  Re* 
gairdin'  yer  son  Wullie — 

"  Oh,  please  dinna  say  ony  mair,"  cried  the 
widow.  "  Ye  mean  to  be  kind,  but  ye  sudna 
try  to  deceive  me.  I  met  Mistress  Milne  the 
noo."  Her  voice  broke. 

Joseph  Redhorn  stood  dumb,  looking  in- 
describably foolish. 

"  I've  nae  excuse  for  Wullie,"  said  the 
woman,  wiping  her  eyes.  "  Ye've  aye  been  ower 
kind  to  him,  an'  he  deserves  to  loss  his  place. 
I  jist  want  to  pey  ye  what  ye  peyed  for  the 
hen." 

Mr.  Redhorn  pulled  himself  together. 

"Wha  said  Wullie  was  gaun  to  loss  his 
place?  As  for  the  hen,  I  bocht  the  hen  for — 
ma  ain  pleasure  an'  gratification.  I  was  jist 
aboot  to  apply  the  terpentine  when  ye  chappit. 
I'll  let  ye  see  the  puir  beast — it's  liker  a  bird 
o'  paradice  nor  a  hen,  I'm  thinkin',"  he  said, 
forcing  a  laugh. 

He  unlocked  the  cupboard  door,  and  with 
frantic  protests  a  bundle  of  newspaper  rushed 
forth  and  careered  about  the  room. 

The  widow  sat  down  on  the  nearest  chair  and 
began  to  laugh. 

Instead  of  applying  the  turpentine,  which 
the  widow  judged  to  be  "  ower  severe,"  they 
gave  the  hen  a  bath  of  linseed  oil.  The  result 
was  better  than  might  have  been  expected.  The 
hen  continued  to  live — with  the  widow's  poul- 


HIS  RESPONSIBILITY  41 

try — and  for  some  time  laid  an  egg  for  Mr. 
Redhorn  daily.  At  any  rate,  Willie  delivered 
an  egg  to  the  painter  every  morning. 

Mrs.  Milne,  the  original  owner,  publicly  ex- 
pressed her  entire  willingness  to  have  any  or 
all  of  her  remaining  fowls  painted  on  the  same 
terms  as  before. 


Ill 

HIS  JUSTICE 

« *W  'M  no'  sayin'  ony thing  agin  the  man," 
protested  Mr.  Peter  Banks.    "  I  say  I'm 
•*•  no'  sayin'  onything  agin  the  man — but 
for  sheer  greed,  an'  selfishness,  an'  close-fisted- 
ness,  Sam'el  Rintoul  tak's  the  cake." 

"  Ay,  he's  greedy,"  assented  the  local 
plumber,  and  spat  casually  over  the  pier  rail. 

"  'Deed,  he  is  that ! "  confirmed  a  third 
native,  whose  business  consisted  in  doing  odd 
jobs  about  the  village — odd  jobs  separated  from 
one  another  by  spells  of  loafing. 

He  was  staring  at  a  wooden  case  which  had 
been  landed  from  the  afternoon  steamer.  It 
bore  a  city  wine-merchant's  label  and  strips  of 
paper  with  the  scarlet  words,  "  With  great 
care,"  "  This  side  up."  He  kicked  it  lightly 
with  his  heavy  foot.  "  Ay,  he's  greedy !  " 

Mr.  Danks's  hard  mouth  relaxed  into  a  sour 
grin,  as  he  bent  over  the  label  to  examine  it  for 
the  fifth  time. 

"  We'll  sune  ha'e  anither  example  o'  his  greed 
an'  selfishness,"  he  remarked. 

"  I'm  thinkin',"  observed  the  fourth  of  the 
group,    Joseph    Redhorn,    who    had    held    his 
peace  throughout  a  fairly  long  discussion  upon 
42 


HIS  JUSTICE  43 

the  character  of  Samuel  Rintoul — "  I'm  think- 
in'  ye're  gey  severe  on  an  auld  man.  Sam  Rin- 
toul hasna  that  muckle  to  gi'e  awa'." 

"  But  the  man's  that  greedy,"  said  the  odd- 
job  man,  while  the  fish-merchant  gave  a  harsh 
laugh  and  the  plumber  again  added  to  the 
ocean. 

"  We're  a'  greedy,  mair  or  less,"  Mr.  Red- 
horn  returned.  "  Maybe  I've  been  blin'  to  the 
beauties  o'  yer  respective  natures/'  he  went  on ; 
"  but  I  maun  confess  that  nane  o'  ye  has  ever 
struck  me  as  perfec'.  Maybe  ye're  in  the  habit 
o'  daein'  yer  little  deeds  o'  kindness  in  the  dark, 
for  nane  o'  ye  has  ever  dazzled  me  wi'  specimens 
o'  yer  generosity." 

The  plumber  and  odd-job  man  sniggered,  but 
Mr.  Banks  glanced  rather  viciously  at  the 
speaker.  He  had  got  the  better  of  Joseph  on 
more  than  one  occasion,  but  he  knew  he  was 
no  match  for  his  old  enemy  when  the  latter 
used  his  tongue. 

"  But  we'll  let  that  pass,"  the  painter  re- 
sumed. "  If  auld  Sam  Rintoul  is  greedy,  it's  in 
self-defence.  He  kens  fine  what  wud  happen 
if  he  was  free  wi'  the  presents  he  whiles  gets 
frae  his  auld  maister,  the  Colonel.  He's  had 
experience." 

"  What  d'ye  mean?  "  cried  Banks  angrily. 

"  He's  had  experience,"  Joseph  continued 
equably,  "  o'  the  voracity  o'  his  fellows — o'  his 
neebours.  That's  what  I  mean.  But  in  case 
it's  no'  clear  enough,  I'll  gi'e  ye  an  example." 


Mr.  Banks  growled  and  looked  as  though  he 
would  like  to  depart;  but  the  painter  held  him 
with  a  glistening,  if  not  glittering,  eye.  The 
two  other  men  shuffled  their  feet,  grinning 
sheepishly. 

"On  a  certain  occasion — no'  the  only  oc- 
casion by  ony  means — Sam  Kintoul  received 
frae  the  Colonel  a  boax,  sich  as  ye  are  noo  re- 
gairdin'  wi'  shupreme  interest.  The  boax  con- 
tained bottles  o'  the  best  whisky,  tinned  meats 
o'  the  finest  quality,  an'  buns  an',  maybe,  bis- 
cuits. Sam  could  never  afford  to  supply  hissel' 
wi'  luxuries;  he  couldna  afford  to  buy  hissel' 
a  dram,  an'  never  did  I  hear  o'  you  chaps 
offerin'  him  a  dram  gratis.  Never!  An'  never 
did  I  hear  o'  ye  veesitin'  him,  the  lanesome 
auld  man — never! — under  or'nar'  circum- 
stances." 

"  Dry  up ! "  Mr.  Banks  muttered  impa- 
tiently. , 

Mr.  Redhorn  continued: — 

"  But  in  extr'or'nar'  circumstances,  sich  as 
the  arrival  o'  the  boax,  I've  heard  that  Sam 
had  a  conseederable  number  o'  veesitors.  May- 
be they  gaed  to  see  that  he  didna  hurt  hissel' 
wi'  luxuries.  Bootless  that  was  their  objec' 
an'  sincere  desire,  for  they  could  a'  afford  a 
dram  an'  ither  moderate  enjoyments  on  their 
ain  account.  At  ony  rate,  Sam  Rintoul  wasna 
permitted  to  hurt  hissel'." 

"That'll  dae,  Ridhorn,"  said  the  plumber. 
"  The  man  gets  his  whisky  an'  buns  for  nae- 


HIS  JUSTICE  45 

thing.     It  costs  him  naething  to  offer  a  few 
freen's  a  taste  an'  a  bite." 

"  A  few  freen's  tastin'  an'  bitin'  for  a  few 
weeks  costs  him  a'  he  gets  frae  the  Colonel," 
the  painter  retorted,  with  perhaps  a  little  heat 
in  his  high-pitched  voice.  "  As  I  was  sayin', 
if  he's  greedy  noo,  it's  in  self-defence.  I  dinna 
blame  him  for  bein'  suspeecious  o'  certain  o' 
his  voracious  neebours." 

"  See  here,  Ridhorn,"  put  in  the  odd-job  man, 
"  I've  struck  a  man  for  less  nor  you've  said." 

"  Was  it  no'  for  ftein'  less  nor  I  am  ?  Hoots, 
Tarn!  Ye  needna  get  excitet.  Confine  yersel' 
to  strikin'  wark,  an'  dinna  let  yer  angry  pas- 
sions rise."  Mr.  Redhorn  was  no  hero,  but  he 
knew  Tarn,  whom  he  had  tided  over  more  than 
one  difficulty. 

"  It's  a  peety  ye  canna  control  yer  tongue," 
observed  Danks  disagreeably.  "  I  suppose  ye 
think  ye're  an  orator." 

Joseph  flushed.  "  Aweel,"  he  said  presently, 
"  I  admit  ye've  had  mair  experience  nor  me  at 
addressin'  the  public,  Danks,  so  I'll  tak'  yer 
hint  an'  ma  ain  depairture." 

The  plumber  and  odd-job  man  laughed,  but 
Danks  squirmed.  He  hated  to  be  reminded  of 
the  humble  days  when  he  "  cried  his  fish  "  from 
door  to  door. 

The  painter  stroking  his  long  nose,  possibly 
to  hide  the  satisfied  smirk  under  it,  passed 
down  the  pier,  but  after  a  few  paces  halted. 
Looking  back  at  the  trio,  he  said  quietly — 


46    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  I  see  Sam  Rintoul  comin'  alang  the  road 
wi'  his  barra — dootless  to  fetch  his  boax.  He'll 
be  gratified  to  ha'e  yer  j'int  assistance  in 
cairryin'  it  to  his  abode.  That's  what  ye're  a' 
waiting  here  for,  I  presume.  Weel,  weel,  may 
ye  a'  get  yer  reward ! " 

And  Joseph  hastened  away,  followed  by  a 
scowl  from  Banks,  but  by  fairly  good-natured 
grins  from  the  others.  After  all,  most  people 
liked  the  painter  better  than  the  fish-merchant. 

Mr.  Redhorn  would  have  passed  on  with  a 
nod,  but  the  old  man  trundling  the  wheel-bar- 
row hailed  him,  and  begged  him  to  "  bide  a 
meenute." 

"  I  suppose  they're  waitin'  for  me  on  the 
pier,  Joseph." 

"  Ay,"  answered  Mr.  Redhorn  briefly,  but  not 
unsympathetically. 

The  old  man  sighed. 

"  Joseph,  could  ye  no'  help  me  hame  wi'  ma 
boax?" 

"  Me?  Aw,  I  doot  ye'll  ha'e  to  excuse  me, 
Sam."  The  painter  looked  uncomfortable. 
"  Ye  see,  they're  expectin'  to  gi'e  ye  their  as- 
sistance, as  it  were.  They — they  wudna  like  if 
I  was  interferin'." 

"  But  I'm  askin'  ye  to  help  me.  I  dinna  want 
their  assistance.  I — I  ken  what  that  means." 

The  painter  looked  still  more  uncomfortable. 
"  Ay,"  he  said  slowly.  "  But  ye  maun  be  firm 
wi'  them,  Sam.  Dinna  pander  to  their  un- 
seemly voracity." 


HIS  JUSTICE  47 

The  old  man  sighed  again. 

"  I  tried  for  to  be  what  ye  ca'  firm  the  last 
time  the  Colonel  sent  me  a  present.  I  never 
offered  them  a  second  gless.  But " 

"  Ye  wud  be  faur  better  to  choke  them  aff 
completely." 

Sam  shook  his  white  head. 

"  It's  no'  that  I  grudge  them  a  taste  an' 
bite,"  he  said  pathetically,  "  but — but  I  like  a 
taste  an'  bite  to  masel'.  Besides,  it's  the  Colo- 
nel's present.  The  whusky  sud  last  for 
months,  an'  it  gets  feenished  in  twa-three 
weeks.  What  wud  I  dae  if  the  Colonel  was 
comin'  to  Fairport  unexpectit-like,  an'  me  no' 
able  to  offer  him  a  dram  o'  his  ain?  He  micht 
think  I  was  a  hard  drinker,  an'  I  never  was 
that,  Joseph." 

"I  ken  that,  Sam;  everybody  kens  ye're  ex- 
tremely temperate.  But  as  I  was  sayin',  ye 
maun  choke  them  aff." 

"  I  canna  dae  it.  ...  Weel,  I'll  no'  keep 
ye.  I'll  be  gled  to  see  ye  ony  nicht.  Ye're  no' 
a  whusky  drinker;  but  the  Colonel  has  sent  me 
port  wine  this  time — he  says  in  his  letter." 

"  Port  wine.  Then  ye  mauna  waste  it,  Sam. 
It'll  be  guid  for  ye,  espaycially  in  the  winter. 
See  an'  preserve  it  frae  yer  voracious  freen's." 

Sam  gripped  the  shafts  of  his  barrow  and 
made  to  move  on,  a  pitiful  figure,  bowed  with 
age  and  dejection.  Somehow  the  sight  of  the 
painter  had  given  him  hope,  but  now — 

"  Haud   on,   Sam,"   said   Mr.   Kedhorn  sud- 


48    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

denly.  "  Something  maun  be  done.  We  maun 
choke  them  aff  by  fair  means  or  foul,  as  the 
poet  says.  I  preshume  they'll  be  payin'  ye  a 
veesit  thenicht?" 

"Ay;  it's  likely." 

"  Wud  ye  bid  them  to  come  at  eicht  o'clock  ?  " 

"Eh?    Bid  them?" 

"Ay — to  a  cake  an'  wine  banquet,  so  to 
speak." 

"  Aw,  Joseph,  ye're  jokin'." 

"  Na ;  I'm  serious.  .  .  .  An'  bid  me  to  come 
at  seeven-thirty.  I've  a  plan — which  I  will  un- 
fold to  ye  then — a  plan  that'll  maybe  pit  an 
end  to  their  voracity.  Can  ye  trust  in  Provi- 
dence and  Joseph  Ridhorn?"  The  painter 
lowered  his  voice,  which  had  been  becoming  ex- 
cited. "  It'll  no'  dae  for  you  an'  me  to  staun' 
crackin'  here.  Can  ye  trust  me  ?  " 

"Oh,  ay,"  answered  the  old  man,  after  a 
little  hesitation. 

"  Then  let  them  help  ye  wi'  yer  boax  the  noo, 
an'  I'll  see  ye  at  seeven-thirty.  Mum's  the 
word." 

"Mum?    What's  that?" 

"Oh,  that's  the  worst  o'  readin'  a  lot.  I 
meant  to  say,  never  let  bug." 

"  I  see,  Joseph.  But  ye'll  no' Aw, 

weel,  I  maun  trust  ye.  I'm  seeck  o'  wastin'  the 
Colonel's  presents." 

"  That's  the  proper  speerit,"  said  Joseph  en- 
couragingly. "  Ye  can  tell  Banks  that  I  hadna 
time  to  help  ye  wi'  yer  boax." 


HIS  JUSTICE  49 

So  saying  he  turned  away;  and  the  next 
moment  began  to  wish  he  had  resisted  the  im- 
pulse to  support  old  Sam  Rintoul. 

"  Discreetion,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  is  the 
better  pairt  o'  valour — espaycially  when  ye're 
no'  extra  valiant  by  nature." 

His  work  that  afternoon  was  done  a  trifle 
less  conscientiously  than  usual,  and  his  young 
apprentice  found  him  extraordinarily  taciturn. 

"  What  did  ye  say  I  was  to  say  was  the  name 
o'  the  wine,  Joseph?" 

It  was  almost  eight  o'clock,  and  Mr.  Redhorn 
was  nervously  puffing  a  cigarette  in  front  of 
Mr.  Rintoul's  kitchen  fire. 

"  Quarto,"  replied  Joseph.  "  Try  an'  keep 
mind  o'  the  name,  Sam.  It's  no  real  name  for 
wine,  but  it'll  impress  Banks  an'  the  ithers. 
They  ken  what  port  is.  An'  the  name  o'  the 
bun  is  Shakespeare.  I  was  readin'  aboot 
Quarto  Shakespeare  the  ither  nicht,  an'  I 
thocht  the  names  was  as  guid  as  ony.  .  .  . 
Quarto  an'  Shakespeare — dinna  forget.  An' 
here  yer  peppermints — ye  ken  what  to  dae  with 
them.  They're  exceedin'ly  powerfu' — but  that's 
necessary.  We  better  eat  twa-three  the  noo,  so 
as  to  perfume  the  atmosphere  an'  prevent 
suspeecions  later." 

Mr.  Rintoul  accepted  the  peppermints  and 
put  one  in  his  mouth. 

"Ye're  a  clever  man,  Joseph,"  he  remarked, 
with  a  chuckle. 


"  I  hope  I  can  depend  on  Tarn,"  said  Mr. 
•Redhorn  dubiously.  He  was  going  to  say 
more,  when  the  sound  of  footsteps  was  heard 
at  the  door. 

Mr.  Banks  entered,  followed  by  the  plumber 
and  odd-job  man.  They  looked  surprised  to 
see  the  painter  sitting  there.  Mr.  Banks  barely 
concealed  his  annoyance,  the  plumber  grinned 
sheepishly,  and  the  odd-job  man's  expression 
suggested  concentrated  hate. 

"  I  hope  ye  can  a'  fin'  sates,"  said  old  Sam 
hospitably.  "  Ridhorn  took  a  lot  o'  persuadin', 
but  I  wantit  him  to  come  the  nicht  an'  taste 
the  wine  the  Colonel  sent  me.  Ye're  a'  wel- 
come." 

They  gathered  round  the  fire,  for  it  was  late 
Autumn,  and  for  a  while  sat  smoking  and 
chatting  amicably  enough,  the  fish-merchant 
and  his  two  companions  being  satisfied  that 
Mr.  Redhorn  was  not  there  with  any  spying  or 
unkindly  motives. 

"  Ye  was  sayin'  the  Colonel  sent  ye  wine," 
said  Banks  to  the  host,  at  the  end  of  half  an 
hour. 

"  'Beed,  ay.  A  dizzen  bottles  o' — o'  Quarto 
wine.  I  believe  it's  a  splendid  wine — terrible 
expensive,  but  rale  guid  for  folk.  Joseph  here 
was  tellin'  me  he  yinst  read  aboot  it  in  a 
paper." 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  the  painter. 

"  Ay,"  said  Joseph.  "  I  read  that  it  was  rale 
nourishin'  an'  sustaining  wi'  a  taste  different 


HIS  JUSTICE  51 

frae  ither  wines.  Maybe  it's  an  acquired  taste, 
but  it's  boun'  to  be  guid  when  the  Colonel 
sent  it." 

"  That's  true,"  agreed  the  others,  and  Banks 
and  the  plumber  looked  thirsty. 

Joseph,  however,  directed  the  conversation 
into  other  channels  and  kept  it  there  for  fully 
an  hour. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  old  Sam  rose  slowly 
to  his  feet  and,  like  the  lady  in  perhaps  the 
most  popular  poem  the  world  has  produced, 
went  to  the  cupboard.  And  in  this  case  the 
cupboard  was  anything  but  bare.  A  little 
husky  sigh  went  up  as  the  opening  of  the  door 
disclosed  the  store  of  good  things,  including 
twelve  dusty  black  bottles. 

Very  leisurely  old  Sam  brought  out  three 
tumblers  of  differing  pattern,  and  handed  them 
one  by  one  to  Banks  and  his  two  companions. 

"  I've  jist  the  three,"  he  explained,  "  so  ye'll 
ha'e  to  excuse  Joseph  an'  me  takin'  wur  wine 
oot  o'  cups." 

He  took  down  one  of  the  bottles. 

"  Here  the  Quarto.  Has  onybody  a  cork- 
screw?" 

Right  eagerly  Mr.  Banks  declared  he  pos- 
sessed the  necessary  instrument,  and  straight- 
way produced  it.  He  offered  to  use  it,  and  the 
bottle  was  handed  to  him.  The  point  of  the 
screw  pierced  the  red  wax  and  entered  the  cork. 
It  was  a  solemn  moment  when  the  cork  came 
out  with  a  cloop.  Mr.  Banks  proudly  placed 


52    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

the  bottle  on  the  table,  on  which  the  host  was 
laying  a  large  square  cake  covered  with  silver 
foil. 

"  This  is  a  Shakespeare  bun,"  said  the  old 
man,  prompted  by  the  painter. 

"  'Deed,  ye're  the  lucky  man,  Sam,"  said 
Mr.  Danks,  whose  geniality  had  waxed  amaz- 
ingly. 

"  He  is  that,"  said  the  plumber,  spitting  into 
the  grate. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  odd-job  man,  in  a  more 
subdued  voice  than  usual. 

The  cake  was  uncovered  and  cut,  and  a  good- 
sized  slab  passed  on  the  point  of  the  knife  to 
each  guest. 

Then  old  Sam,  with  an  effort,  said — 

"  Help  yersel',  Danks,  an'  pass  roon'  the 
bottle." 

Mr.  Danks  helped  himself  cheerfully,  and  the 
bottle  went  round. 

"Yer  guid  health,  Sam,"  said  the  fish-mer- 
chant, and  took  an  eager  gulp,  his  example 
being  followed  by  the  rest  of  the  company. 

Then  fell  a  silence  in  which  waves  of  pained 
surprise  appeared  on  at  least  three  faces.  Then 
the  rich-looking  cake  was  hurriedly  crammed 
into  the  cavities  for  which  it  was  destined. 

"  This  is  wonderfu'  unique  wine,"  observed 
Mr.  Eedhorn,  without  looking  at  anybody. 
"  I—I'll  gi'e  ye  a'  a  toast." 

There  was  no  immediate  response.  The  cake 
seemed  to  be  difficult  to  swallow. 


HIS  JUSTICE  53 

Mr.  Danks,  as  if  in  desperation,  took  some 
more  wine  and — shuddered. 

"  They  ea'  it  Quarto,"  remarked  old  Sam, 
after  slipping  five  peppermints  into  his  mouth. 
"  An'  they  ca'  the  cake  Shakespeare." 

No  one,  save  the  painter,  seemed  to  be  in- 
terested. The  three  companions  sat  with  cake 
in  one  hand  and  glass  in  the  other,  as  if  smit- 
ten with  palsy,  save  that  their  faces  worked 
convulsively. 

And  suddenly  the  odd-job  man  got  up,  set 
his  glass  on  the  table,  dropped  his  cake  on 
the  floor,  and  ran  from  the  room.  The  plumbar 
next  departed,  and  Danks,  after  one  more  sip, 
groaned  and  also  fled.  Mr.  Redhorn  shook 
hands  with  his  host  and  followed  them. 

Not  many  yards  along  the  road,  he  came 
upon  the  fish-merchant  and  plumber  gazing 
horror-stricken  on  the  odd-job  man,  who  rolled 
on  the  ground  at  their  feet. 

"  Gi'e  me  an  anecdote,"  he  wailed.  "  I  want 
an  anecdote." 

"  Antidote,  ye  eediot !  "  whispered  Mr.  Red- 
horn,  bending  over  him.  "  What's  wrang  wi' 
ye,  Tarn?  "  he1  asked  aloud. 

"  I'm  p'isoned — we're  a'  p'isoned  wi'  thon 
wine  an'  cake.  Oh,  me!  Can  ye  no'  get  the 
doctor?" 

Groans  burst  from  the  fish-merchant  and 
plumber. 

"  Rintoul'll  hang  for  this,"  said  the  former. 
"  An'  the  nearest  doctor's  f ower  mile  awa'." 


54    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"What  are  we  to  dae?" 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head. 

"Can  ye  no'  rise  an'  walk,  Tarn?"  he  asked 
of  the  prone  one. 

"  I'll  try.  But  I'm  done  for.  Ye'll  a'  be  done 
for,  unless  ye  get  an  anecdote — I  mean  to  say 
antidote — quick.  D'ye  no'  feel  strange  an' 
queer?"  he  demanded  of  each  in  turn. 

They  all  did. 

Mr.  Redhorn  rose  upright. 

"  I've  castor  ile  in  the  hoose.  I  had  an  aunt 
that  used  to  say, '  When  in  doot,  tak'  castor  ile.' 
I'm  awa'  hame  for  a  dose,  an'  then  I'll  send 
post-haste  for  the  doctor." 

The  odd-job  man  scrambled  to  his  feet. 

"  Ye'll  gi'e  me  a  dose,"  he  said  feebly.  "  Aw, 
Joseph,  ye'll  gi'e  me  a  dose ! " 

"  An'  me,"  cried  the  fish-merchant. 

"  An'  me,"  pleaded  the  plumber. 

"  If  I  can.  spare  it,"  was  the  cold  reply. 

With  one  accord  they  hastened  to  the 
painter's  abode,  a  furlong  distant.  They 
crowded  into  his  room.  They  sighed  with  re- 
lief when  he  produced  a  noble  bottle  full  of  the 
old-fashioned  "  cold  drawn  "  sort. 

Mr.  Redhorn  served  it  out  in  tea-cups. 

"  On  second  thochts,"  he  remarked,  when 
they  had  all  finished,  "  I'll  no'  tak'  ony.  A  wee 
tate  quinine  is  nesty,  but  no'  fatal ;  the  same 
micht  be  said  o'  Turkey  rhubarb.  The  twa  are 
the  maist  prominent  flavours  of  Quarto  wine 
an'  Shakespeare  bun.  An'  noo,  gentlemen,  ye 


HIS  JUSTICE  55 

can  retire."  He  went  to  the  door,  an'  held  it 
open.  "  Dinna  use  bad  language ;  dinna  try 
assault  an'  battery.  If  ye  keep  quate,  I'll  keep 
quate — I'll  keep  this  evenin's  performance  a 
secret.  I'll  say  naething  aboot  the  reward  o' 
yer  voracity.  But  if  ye  trouble  Sam  Kintoul 
or  maseF,  the  public  o'  Fairport  shall  be  duly 
informed  that  ye  got  dosed  wi'  castor  ile — 
dosed  like  weans — by  Joseph  Ridhorn.  Pass 
oot !  Guid-nicht  to  ye,  an'  pleasin'  dreams !  " 

Mr.  Banks  passed  out.  Mr.  Red  horn  watched 
him  go.  The  plumber,  who  had  been  standing 
by  the  table,  followed.  It  was  so  obvious  that 
there  was  nothing  else  for  them  to  do. 

The  odd-job  man  lingered. 

"  Weel,  Tarn,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn  pleasantly, 
"  here  yer  hauf-croon.  Yer  performance  was 
fair  to  middlin'." 

"  Did  I  no'  dae  the  agony  rale  weel  ?  " 

"  Agony !  Oh,  man,  thon  agony  wasna  worth 
a  button.  Guid-nicht  to  ye." 

Mr.  Redhorn  brewed  himself  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  sat  down  to  enjoy  it. 

"  Richt  or  wrang,"  he  murmured,  "  revenge 
is  sweet,  vera  sweet  indeed ! " 

As  was  his  custom,  when  not  in  company,  he 
began  by  taking  a  good  hearty  pull  from  the 
milk-jug. 

"  What's  this?  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  milk  tasted  queer,  in  fact  disgusting. 

Presently  he  discovered  that  the  castor-oil 
bottle  was  quite  empty. 


IV. 
HIS  TOILET 

ME.  REDHORN  divested  himself  of  his 
jacket  and  waistcoat,  and  raised  his 
hand  to  unbutton  his  collar. 

"  Wullie,"  he  said,  pausing  in  the  act,  "  did 
I  no'  tell  ye  ye  could  gang  hame?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  his  apprentice,  "  but — but  can  I 
no'  get  stoppin'  till  ye've  dressed  yersel'  ?  " 

Mr.  Redhorn  frowned,  remarking — "  I'm 
no'  in  the  habit  o'  performin'  ma  toilet  in 
public,  Wullie.  I  invitet  ye  in  to  partake  o'  a 
bottle  o'  leemonade,  because  the  occasion  was 
yin  o'  conseederable  importance;  but  I  observe 
ye've  feenished  the  leemonade " 

"  Let  me  bide,  an'  I'll  polish  yer  buits  an' 
brush  yer  claes,  an' — an'  help  ye,"  the  boy 
interrupted  eagerly. 

Mr.  Redhorn  glanced  at  the  clock.  "Near 
fower  o'clock,"  he  muttered,  "  an'  I've  to  be 
ready  at  sax.  Criftens!  It'll  tak'  me  a'  ma 
time !" 

"  I'll  polish  yer  buits  till  ye  can  see  yer  face 
in  them." 

"  I'll  be  gled  when  I  see  ma  feet  in  them. 
They're  that  ticht,"  said  the  painter  sadly. 
56 


HIS  TOILET  57 

"  They're  a'  richt  for  a  funeral,  whaur  a  body's 
no  expectit  to  be  merry;  but  for  a  mairriage, 
wi'  dancin'  to  follow, — Weel,  Wullie,  ye  can 
bide,  if  ye'll  promise  to  baud  yer  tongue  when 
I'm  shavin'  masel'." 

"  I'll  no'  cheep,"  said  Willie.  "  I  wud  like 
fine  to  see  ye  shavin'  yerseF,"  he  added. 

"  Oh,  that's  what  ye're  ef ter !  "  exclaimed  his 
master.  "  Weel,  ma  laddie,  I'm  no'  gaun  to 
display  the  secrets  o'  ma  boudoyr  for  your 
amusement,  or  onybody  else's.  Awa'  hame  wi' 
ye!" 

"  Aw,  Maister  Ridhorn !  " 

So  piteous  and  reproachful  did  his  apprentice 
look  that  the  painter  relented. 

"  Weel,"  he  said  slowly,  "  ye  can  bide  in  the 
meantime.  But  nae  levity,  Wullie,  nae  levity — 
mind  that ! " 

On  the  whole,  Mr.  Redhorn  was  not  ill- 
pleased  to  have  the  boy's  company  while  he 
arrayed  himself  for  the  event  which  was  caus- 
ing much  excitement  in  Fairport.  "  It's  maybe 
better,"  he  reflected,  "  to  let  Wullie  bide.  To 
be  alane  wi'  ma  thochts  for  twa  'oors  micht  end 
in  ma  nervous  prostration.  I  maun  try  no'  to 
brood  upon  ma  responsibeelities.  It's  nae 
joke  bein'  a  best  man." 

Willie,  with  a  boot  in  one  hand  and  a  brush 
in  the  other,  gaped  at  his  master. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  grimacing  dreadfully,  was 
scraping  the  under  portion  of  his  chin. 


58    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

Suddenly  the  painter  paused  in  his  task. 

"  Laddie,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  for  ony  favour, 
dinna  glower  at  me  as  if  I  was  a  waux-work. 
Did  ye  never  see  onybody  shavin'  afore  ?  " 

"Na.    It's  awfu'  funny." 

"Funny?  It's  a  tragedy!  I  bocht  this 
rauzor  aff  a  man  in  Glesca.  I  broke  ma  auld 
yin,  which  wasna  bad.  This  yin  cost  me  three 
shillin's,  an'  the  man  said  it  wud  provide  a 
luxurious  shave.  Weel,  it's  maybe  that  I'm  no' 
used  to  luxury.  Never  you  seek  to  shave, 
Wullie.  Grow  a  baird  when  yer  time  comes." 

"  What  wey  dae  you  no'  grow  a  baird, 
Maister  Ridhorn?" 

The  painter  sighed.  "  The  plainest  o'  human 
bein's  ha'e  their  wee  vanities.  I  yinst  tried  to 
grow  a  baird,  but  I  couldna  get  it  to  come 
even.  So,  instead  o'  bein'  contentit  to  be  as 
Providence  designed  me,  I  resumed  the  torture 
which  ye're  at  present  witnessin'.  Let  it  be  a 
warnin'.  .  .  .  Noo,  turn  yer  back  to  me,  an' 
dinna  gloat  on  ma  sufferin's." 

"  Noo  to  perform  ma  abolutions,"  said  Mr. 
Redhorn,  more  cheerfully,  putting  away  his 
razor.  "  Under  the  circumstances  it  wasna  a 
bad  shave.  Bootless,  if  I  had  been  the  bride- 
groom instead  of  jist  the  best  man,  I  wud  ha'e 
cut  ma  nose  aff." 

"  What  has  the  best  man  got  to  dae,  Maister 
Ridhorn  ?  "  inquired  Willie,  and  spat  lightly  on 
the  blacking. 


HIS  TOILET  59 

"  What  has  he  no'  got  to  dae  ? "  cried  the 
painter,  with  a  groan.  "  He's  got  to  be  a  host 
in  hissel'!  A  compendium  o'  tact  an'  socia'- 
beelity.  I  thocht  it  was  a  simple  affair  until 
I  read  aboot  it  in  a  wee  paper  I  got  frae  Miss 
Lavendar.  She  had  heard  I  was  gaun  to  be 
best  man  to  John  Sorley,  an'  she  meant  kindly, 
nae  doot,  but  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  the 
paper.  Of  course,  the  instructions  was  intendit 
maistly  for  gentry,  but  they  pit  notions  intil 
ma  heid  that  I  wud  gledly  get  oot.  For  in- 
stance, I'm  feart  I  stert  up  and  propose  the 
health  o'  the  bride's  parents,  wha've  been  deid, 
puir  bodies,  for  mony  a  lang  year.  I'm  feart  I 
loss  ma  heid  an'  gi'e  the  meenister  a  fee — 
a  thrup'n'y  bit — or  dae  something  else 
rideec'lous.  I'm  feart  I  affront  masel'  in  fifty 
weys.  .  .  .  But  I  mauna  brood  on  sic  painful 
details,  or  I'll  never  be  ready  at  sax  prompt. 
Never  shave,  an'  never  be  a  best  man, 
Wullie." 

There  was  a  great  gushing  of  water  at  the 
sink,  and  for  the  next  ten  minutes  Mr.  Redhorn 
rubbed  and  scrubbed,  and  puffed  and  snorted, 
with  the  utmost  enthusiasm. 

"  Hech !  but  that's  caller !  "  he  gasped  from 
the  towel.  "  If  ye  canna  be  handsome,  ye  can 
be  clean.  Tits!  this  towel's  fu'  o'  holes.  I 
near  dislocatit  ma  nose.  That's  yin  dis- 
advantage o'  bein'  a  single  man,  Wullie.  Nae 
wonder  monks  an'  the  like  was  said  to  spend 
a  holy  existence.  Nae  wonder  they  didna  weer 


60   WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

socks.  Dod!  this  towel's  a  sicht  for  a  female 
suffragist ! " 

"  I'll  get  ma  mither  to  mend  it  for  ye,  if  ye 
like,"  put  in  Willie. 

Mr.  Redhorn  started.  Then  he  said  quietly, 
"  This  towel  is  yin  o'  ma  boudoyr  secrets,  lad- 
die. Dinna  repeat  it." 

"  If  Julius  Caesar  had  wore  this  sark,"  ob- 
served the  painter,  tapping  the  extremely  stiff 
front,  "  he  micht  ha'e  lived  to  be  hung.  He 
certainly  wudna  ha'e  felt  the  daggers  o'  his 
foes.  I  feel  like  Ivanhoe — an'  he  maun  ha'e 
been  sair  uncomfortable  when  the  tinsmith  had 
feenished  his  job.  This  is  what  the  modern 
steam  laundry  can  dae  for  five-pence — ay! 
An',  as  per  usual,  the  button  at  the  back's  awa' 
wi'  't.  I  daursay  the  laundries  mak'  a  profit 
oot  their  customers'  buttons.  Ha'e  ye  a  preen, 
laddie?  .  .  .  Thenk  ye.  Noo  for  the  collar — 
anither  invention  o'  deluded  man.  Man's  in- 
humanity to  man,  etceetera.  My!  but  it's 
stiff!  .  .  .  Whaur's  ma  stud?  Aw,  here  it  is. 
Tits!  I've  drappit  it!  Ma  fingers  is  a' 
thoombs  the  day.  Thenk  ye,  Wullie.  This  stud 
is  manufactured  o'  rolled  gold,  an'  it's  mair 
fikey  nor  precious.  It's  got  a  patent  heid  that 
flees  aff  when  ye  least  expec'  it.  It's  no'  the 
thing  to  weer  when  ye've  a  ticht  collar  an'  a 
cough — unless  ye  want  to  pit  oot  somebody's 
e'e.  Hooever,  this  is  a  new  collar  that  I  got 
spaycially  twa  sizes  ower  big  for  me,  so  as  the 


HIS  TOILET  61 

harmony  o'  the  waddin'  wudna  be  interrup'it. 
...  It  bulges  at  the  sides,  but  I'll  jist  ha'e 
to  try  an'  look  as  if  it  was  the  latest  style." 

"  Tits !  I  near  forgot  to  brush  ma  hair. 
What  wey  did  ye  no'  ca'  ma  attention  to  the 
omeesion,  Wullie?" 

"  I  didna  notice,  Maister  Ridhorn.  I  was 
brushin'  ye're  buits." 

"  Weel,  weel,  ye've  mair  to  brush  nor  I've 
got,"  said  the  painter  with  a  rueful  grin,  as 
he  looked  in  the  small  mirror.  "  Ma  hair's  like 
yin  o'  thae  fastin'  professors:  it  gets  thinner 
every  day.  Nevertheless,  it's  no'  aye  the  hair- 
iest heid  that's  the  cleverest.  Mind  that,  Wul- 
lie, if  ye  commence  to  get  bald  afore  yer  prime, 
as  I  did."  Mr.  Redhorn  proceeded,  with 
mathematical  precision,  to  arrange  his  few 
long  hairs  across  his  scalp.  "  I  yinst  read  in 
a  paper  that  it  was  the  duty  o'  everybody  to 
mak'  the  maist  o'  their  pheesical  charms  an' 
nateral  attractions,"  he  remarked ;  adding 
gloomily,  "  In  some  cases  the  maist  is  no' 
muckle." 

"  Are  ye  ready  for  yer  buits  noo  ? "  asked 
Willie,  perspiring  with  his  exertions. 

"  Na ;  I'll  keep  them  till  the  vera  last.  It's 
nae  use  meetin'  trouble  hauf-roads.  'Deed 
ye've  made  a  fine  job  o'  them.  I  never  had  me 
buits  brushed  like  that  afore.  I'm  obleeged  to 
ye,  Wullie." 

Willie  looked  gratified. 


62    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"D'ye  see  ma  tie  onywhaur?"  said  the 
painter,  peering  anxiously  about  him.  "  It's  a 
pink  tie — maybe  no'  becomin',  but  I  under- 
staun'  it's  quite  the  correc'  thing.  The  shop- 
keeper said  it  was  a'  the  rage.  Ye've  got  to 
look  jaunty  at  a  waddin',  nae  matter  hoo  ye 
feel.  D'ye  no'  see  the  tie?  I'm  sure  I  laid  it 
oot  at  dinner-time." 

They  searched  industriously  but  vainly. 

"  This  is  awfu' ! "  muttered  Mr.  Redhorn, 
glancing  at  the  clock.  "  Five-fifteen — an'  me 
no'  near  ready." 

"Are  ye  sure  ye  laid  it  oot?"  the  boy  in- 
quired. 

"  I'm  sure  o'  naething  in  this  warld,"  re- 
turned his  master  bitterly,  rising  from  looking 
under  the  bed,  and  rubbing  his  head,  which  he 
had  bumped  rather  severely. 

"  Ye've  toosied  yer  hair,"  Willie  observed, 
"  an'  ye've  filed  yer  sark  front,  an' " 

"  Haud  yer  tongue ! "  cried  the  distracted 
painter.  "  Job  had  his  afflictions,  but  I  never 
heard  o'  him  bein'  a  best  man.  Whaur  on 
earth  is  that  tie?" 

"  I'll  rin  hame  an'  get  ye  ma  Sunday  yin," 
said  Willie,  suddenly.  "  I'll  no'  be  lang.  Ye 
can  be  pittin'  on  yer  ither  things  till  I  come 
back." 

Mr.  Redhorn  made  a  feeble  attempt  to  stop 
him,  but  Willie  bolted. 

He  returned  at  a  quarter  to  six,  and  proudly 


HIS  TOILET  63 

presented  a  comparatively  new  tie  of  a  light 
tartan  pattern. 

Mr.  Redhorn  winced  at  the  sight  of  it. 

"  It — it's  rale  braw,  Wullie,"  he  said  kindly ; 
"  but  it's  a — a  wee  thing  juvenile  for  me. 
Never  heed,  though.  I'll  weer  it,  an'  be  yer 
debtor." 

He  donned  the  gaudy  ornament,  and  but- 
toned up  his  old-fashioned  morning-coat. 

"  The  tie  luks  fine,"  remarked  Willie,  with  a 
smirk  of  pride.  "  It's  a  guid  thing  ye  let  me 
bide." 

"  'Deed,  ay,"  said  the  painter,  glancing  at 
himself  in  the  mirror  and  shrinking  from  the 
reflection. 

"  Are  yer  buits  hurtin'  ye?  " 

"  So,  so,"  replied  Mr.  Redhorn  bravely.  "  Ma 
chief  torture  the  noo  is  mental.  Gi'e  ma  coat 
a  brush,  Wullie.  Time's  near  up." 

Willie  attacked  the  back  of  the  coat,  but 
soon  desisted  with  an  exclamation. 

"  Here  yer  pink  tie !  It  was  in  yer  tail 
pooch."  And  he  flourished  it  before  the  owner, 
who  had  turned  sharply.  "  It's  an  awfu'  bonny 
colour." 

"  Tits !  I  pit  it  there  for  safety.  I'll " 

He  stepped  towards  the  mirror. 

"  Are  ye  no'  gaun  to  weer  ma  tie,  Maister 
Ridhorn?  "  Plainly  the  boy  was  hurt. 

Mr.  Redhorn  halted.  He  made  up  his  mind 
quickly.  He  stuffed  the  pink  tie  into  Willie's 
breast  pocket. 


64    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  There,  laddie !  Fair  exchange,  ye  ken !  If 
ye  dinna  like  the  pink,  I'll— 

"  Is't  for  me?"  gasped  Willie,  delighted. 

"  Subjec'  to  yer  mither's  approval.  Noo  get 
on  wi'  the  brushin' — an'  mind  the  buttons  at 
the  back — they're  like  masel',  requirin'  the  at- 
tentions o'  a  female.  Never  you  be  a  bachelor, 
Wullie — unless  ye  gi'e  up  the  pentin'  an'  be- 
come a  tailor." 

Just  as  the  clock  pointed  to  six  Mr.  Kedhorn 
opened  his  door.  Then  he  remembered  that 
the  clock  was  twenty-five  minutes  fast. 


ft 

HIS  LUCK 

A  Mr.  Redhorn  was  nearing  his  home  one 
evening,  after  a  satisfactory  day's  work, 
he  was  accosted  by  the  postman,  who 
gleefully  observed: — 

"  Man,  Joseph,  it's  yersel'  that's  the  lucky 
man ! " 

"  Hoo  that,  Peter? "  inquired  the  painter, 
looking  mystified. 

"  What !  Did  naebody  tell  ye  ye  had  won  a 
prize  in  the  Kinlochan  Subscription  Sale?  Ye 
mind  ye  tell't  me  to  keep  a  ticket  for  you." 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head.  "  I  wasna 
hame  at  dinner-time  the  day.  Of  course  I  mind 
aboot  the  ticket.  But  ye're  jokin' !  " 

"  No'  me !  "  returned  the  postman.  "  It's  as 
true  as  I'm  here.  I  had  the  pleesure  o'  takin' 
the  prize  to  yer  hoose  twa  'oors  back.  I  got 
the  auld  wife  that  tidies  yer  place  to  open  the 
door." 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  obleeged  to  ye,  Peter,"  said 
Mr.  Redhorn,  excitement  getting  the  better  of 
him.  "  But  what  am  I  to  dae  wi'  a  harmonium  ? 
1  doot  I'm  ower  auld  to  learn  to " 

"  Ah,  but  ye're  no'  jist  as  lucky  as  a'  that. 
65 


66    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

It  wasna  the  first  prize  ye  got;  it  was  the 
fourth." 

"Aw,  the  fourth.  .  .  .  Weel,  weel,  that's 
guid  enough  for  me.  I  had  but  the  yin  ticket. 
So  I've  gotten  the  cuckoo-clock.  That's  fine! 
A  cuckoo-clock's  a  fine  cheery  thing  -  " 

"  Haud  on,  man  !  Ye're  ower  quick.  The 
clock  was  the  fifth  prize.  The  fourth  prize  was 


"  A  lamp  !  "  cried  the  painter.  "  I  mind  noo. 
Weel  --  " 

"Naw,  it  wasna  a  lamp.  It  was  a  goat," 
said  the  postman,  chuckling. 

"  A  goat  ?  "  echoed  Mr.  Redhorn.  He  began 
to  laugh,  but  stopped  abruptly.  "  A  goat  ! 
What'll  I  dae  wi'  a  goat?"  he  asked  slowly 
and  heavily. 

"I  wonder  what  the  goat'll  dae  wi'  you, 
Joseph,"  said  the  postman,  shaking  with  merri- 
ment. 

"Is't—  is't  fierce?" 

"  No'  exac'ly  fierce.  I  suppose  it  does  what  it 
does  in  fun,  but  -  " 

"Fun!  What  does  it  dae?  Here,  Peter, 
baud  on  a  meenute!  What  does  it  dae?"  He 
clutched  vainly  at  the  postman,  who  was  mov- 
ing away. 

"  I  canna  bide  the  noo,"  returned  the  latter 
hurriedly.  "  The  boat's  comin'  to  the  pier,  an' 
I  maun  get  the  mail  bags.  Efter  I  get  feen- 
ished  wi'  the  deleevery  I'll  come  an'  see  hoo 
ye're  gettin'  on.  Ca'  canny  wi'  the  beast,  an' 


HIS  LUCK  67 

mak'  it  keep  its  distance.  It  micht  gore  ye — 
in  fun." 

"  Fun ! "  muttered  the  painter  once  more. 
With  lagging  steps  he  approached  his  abode. 
A  rain  squall  swept  the  village,  and  his  neigh- 
bours were  all  within  doors.  It  was  very  dark. 

Mr.  Redhorn  inserted  his  key  in  the  lock, 
but  did  not  turn  it.  He  listened  intently.  Sud- 
denly out  of  the  silence  came  a  crash. 

"  Crif tens ! "  exclaimed  Joseph.  "  What  was 
that?  What's  gaun  on  in  ma  hoose?  " 

He  continued  to  listen  for  nearly  five  min- 
utes, but  no  further  sound  reached  his  ears. 
A  gleam  of  hope  pierced  his  gloom.  "  Maybe 
it's  kilt  itsel',"  he  thought.  "  Puir  beast,"  he 
added  inwardly.  "  But  I'm  no'  a  true  beast 
lover,  though  Providence  has  seen  fit  to  afflict 
me  afore  noo  wi'  various  beasts  an'  birds." 

He  opened  the  door  cautiously  and  stepped 
within,  closing  it  softly  behind  him.  Still  all 
was  silent.  He  struck  a  match  and  peered 
about  the  room.  A  chair  had  been  overturned, 
and  several  dishes  lay  on  the  floor  in  fragments. 
Otherwise  the  room  was  as  he  knew  it. 

Mr.  Redhorn  drew  in  his  breath  with  an 
angry  hiss  at  the  sight  of  his  broken  china. 
The  hiss  ended  in  a  sharp  exclamation  as  the 
match  scorched  his  finger  and  thumb. 

"Are  ye  there,  goat?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice,  striking  a  second  match. 

There  was  no  response  of  any  kind,  and  he 
went  forward  to  the  table  to  light  the  lamp. 


68    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"Goat!    Whaur  are  ye?"  he  demanded. 

The  match  flickered  out  before  the  wick  was 
ignited,  but  not  before  the  painter  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  weird  object  on  the  bed  in  the 
recess.  He  knew  it  must  be  the  goat,  and  yet 
a  shudder  ran  through  him. 

Hastily  he  struck  three  matches  together, 
and  set  the  lamp  going.  The  light  encouraged 
him. 

Standing  by  the  table  and  fixing  the  animal 
with  his  eye,  he  said  sternly — 

"  Come  doon  oot  o'  that,  goat !  " 

The  goat  gazed  at  him  suspiciously,  and  did 
not  move.  Mr.  Redhorn  tried  persuasion. 
"  The  puir  beast's  maybe  feart  for  me,"  he  told 
himself.  With  a  kindly  smile,  he  said  gently — 

"  Come  aff  ma  bed,  wee  goatie,  an'  I'll  gi'e 
ye  something  nice."  He  wondered  whether 
goats  liked  cheese  or  strawberry  jam.  "  Come 
aff  ma  bed,  wee  goatie,"  he  repeated,  holding 
out  a  friendly  hand,  which  may  have  trembled. 

At  this  gesture  the  goat  rose  threateningly 
on  its  hind  legs  and  made  as  if  to  jump  from 
the  bed.  It  did  not  leave  its  refuge,  however, 
and  Mr.  Redhorn  was  not  altogether  sorry. 

"  It's  got  horns  like  daggers,"  he  muttered. 
"  A  bonny  prize  for  a  single  man  to  get !  This 
is  waur  nor  ha'ein'  a  pentit  hen  i'  the  hoose. 
Here,  goat,"  he  said  aloud.  He  poured  a  goodly 
portion  of  jam  into  a  saucer  and  slid  the  saucer 
along  the  floor.  It  came  to  rest  a  yard  or  so 
from  the  bed. 


HIS  LUCK  69 

"  There  ye  are,  goat !  Dinna  be  feart.  Come 
doon  an'  enjoy  yerseF." 

The  Fourth  Prize  paid  no  attention  to  the 
invitation. 

"  Ye  saucy  monster ! "  cried  the  painter,  ex- 
cusably indignant.  He  stamped  loudly  on  the 
floor,  and  the  goat  bounded  fearsomely.  He 
wiped  his  forehead  and  glanced  at  the  clock. 
Nearly  two  hours  must  elapse  ere  he  could  de- 
pend on  the  postman's  promised  assistance. 
He  groaned.  He  shrank  from  begging  help 
from  his  neighbours — they  were  so  easily 
amused. 

"  If  I  yinst  got  the  haud  o'  ye,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing the  creature,  "  I  wud  tie  ye  up.  But 
ye  could  dunch  a  hole  in  me  afore  I  could  say 
'  Jake  Robinson ! '  Wull  ye  no'  come  aff  the 
bed  an'  eat  yer  jam,  instead  o'  glowerin'  at  me 
as  if  I  was  yer  executioner  ?  See !  Luk  at  the 
jam.  Come  awa',  goat!  Dinna  be  feart,  ma 
wee  goatie.  I  wudna  harm  a  hair  o'  yer 
heid." 

For  nigh  half  an  hour  did  the  fortunate 
winner  address  his  prize;  but  threats  and  plead- 
ings were  of  no  avail.  Then  a  sudden  inspira- 
tion seized  Mr.  Redhorn.  From  wall  to  wall, 
above  his  head,  stretched  a  rope  whereon  he 
was  wont  to  dry  wet  garments. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  rope  was  coiled  in 
his  hands.  Mr.  Redhorn's  promiscuous  reading 
had  not  been  wholly  futile.  "  If  folk,"  he  re- 
flected, "  can  catch  rhinoceruses  frae  the  backs 


70    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

o'  horses,  I  can  surely  catch  a  goat  frae  a 
kitchen  floor." 

And  to  the  best  of  his  ability  he  manufac- 
tured a  lasso.  During  the  operation  the  goat 
hoofed  viciously  at  the  patchwork  counterpane, 
a  proceeding  which  did  not  soften  the  owner's 
heart. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  with  a  confused  picture  of 
cowboys  in  his  mind's  eye,  gathered  the  rope 
into  coils  and  heaved  it  at  the  offender.  The 
rope  struck  the  wall  behind  the  goat,  who 
bucked  frantically. 

"  I  doot  that  wasna  the  richt  wey,"  mur- 
mured the  painter  as  he  gathered  in  the  rope. 
"  It  was  liker  a  sailor  on  a  steamboat  nor  a 
wild-beast  hunter."  He  set  his  teeth  and 
whirled  the  noose  round  his  head.  Somehow  it 
wound  itself  round  his  own  neck.  He  removed 
it,  patiently  enough,  and  made  another  attempt. 
The  noose  in  its  flight  wiped  an  old  medicine 
bottle  from  the  mantelpiece  to  the  hearth. 

"  This'll  no'  dae,"  he  growled.  "  I'm  ower 
reckless.  .  .  .  Here,  goat !  dinna  claw  holes  in 
ma  bed,"  he  cried. 

It  would  take  too  long  to  describe  all  Mr. 
Redhorn's  futile  throws.  Suffice  it  to  say  that, 
at  last,  by  making  a  rush  to  within  four  feet 
of  the  bed,  he  succeeded  in  getting  the  noose 
over  the  animal's  neck.  With  a  grunt  of 
satisfaction  he  retired  and  drew  it  tight.  The 
goat  bounced  wildly. 

"  If  ye  get  chokit,   blame  yersel' ! "  yelled 


HIS  LUCK  71 

Joseph.  "  Come  oot  o'  that !  Come  aff  ma 
bed,  afore  it's  ower  late,  ye  muckle  antelope ! " 

The  goat  planted  its  forepaws  firmly  on  the 
bed-clothes. 

Mr.  Redhorn  set  his  teeth,  and  began  to 
pull. 

The  rope  parted,  and  the  painter  found  him- 
self on  the  floor.  At  the  same  moment,  for 
reasons  best  known  to  itself,  the  goat  leapt 
from  the  bed  and  skipped  to  the  door,  where 
it  turned  at  bay. 

For  some  time  the  painter  lay  where  he  fell. 
He  believed  the  creature  was  about  to  attack 
him,  but  he  vaguely  remembered  that  certain 
wild  beasts  did  not  attack  dead  people.  So 
he  held  his  breath  till  he  could  hold  it  no 
longer.  He  then  opened  his  eyes.  The  goat 
was  stationary  in  the  corner  by  the  door. 

Mr.  Redhorn  arose,  rubbing  his  tingling 
funny-bone. 

"  I'm  a  meeserable  cooard,"  he  sighed,  "  but 
it  wud  tak'  a  gladiator  no'  to  be  feart  for  thur 
horns.  What  am  I  to  dae  wi'  the  beast?" 

He  decided  to  leave  the  house  and  remain 
outside  till  the  postman  came.  And  then  he 
realised  that  the  door  was  guarded.  The  win- 
dow! Yes;  the  window  was  available — but 
what  if  any  of  the  neighbours  witnessed  his 
craven  exit? 

Once  more  he  approached  his  prize,  with 
soft  words  and  bland  smiles.  It  looked  more 
terrifying  than  ever.  He  retired  backwards 


72    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

and  came  to  a  halt  with  his  heel  in  the  saucer 
of  jam. 

A  knock. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  sitting  on  the  bed,  his  legs 
drawn  up,  and  the  poker  in  his  hand,  replied 
anxiously — 

"Is  that  you,  Peter?" 

"  Naw ;  it's  me — Wullie." 

"Wullie  McWattie?" 

"Ay.  Mither  sent  me  wi'  some  scones  for 
ye.  Are  ye  shavin'  yerseP,  that  ye  canna  let 
me  in?" 

"  Na.  I — I'm  no'  exac'ly  shavin'  masel', 
Wullie.  Did — did  ye  hear  that  I  won  a  goat 
at  the  Kinlochan  Subscription  Sale?" 

"A  goat?  That's  fine!  Can  I  get  seem'  it? 
Ha'e  ye  been  ha'ein'  fun  wi'  it?  Goats  is  awfu' 
funny.  We  yinst  had  yin." 

Mr.  Redhorn  collected  his  wits. 

"  I  canna  open  the  door,  Wullie,  in  case — 
in  case  it  escapes,"  he  called,  adding  in  a 
whisper,  "Lord  forgi'e  me!" 

"Can  I  no'  get  in?" 

"Come  roon  to  the  winda,"  the  painter  at 
last  replied.  He  left  the  bed  and  proceeded 
backwards  to  the  window.  Getting  up  on  the 
sink-board,  he  threw  the  window  open. 

Presently  his  apprentice  climbed  in.  Sur- 
veying the  scene,  he  remarked — 

"  Yer  goat's  a  frisky  chap,  Maister  Ridhorn." 
He  deposited  a  parcel  on  the  table. 


HIS  LUCK  73 

"  Ay,  it's  a  wee  thing — frisky,"  returned 
Joseph,  letting  the  poker  fall  on  his  foot,  and 
reddening  with  shame  and  pain. 

Willie,  however,  was  already  advancing  to- 
wards the  goat.  It  rose  to  meet  him.  The 
painter  let  out  a  warning  cry,  but  the  boy  had 
the  horns  safe  in  his  grasp. 

"  It's  a  nice  wee  goat,"  Willie  said,  clap- 
ping it. 

"Wud  ye  like  to  tak'  it  hame?"  said  the 
painter  abruptly. 

When  the  postman  arrived  he  found  Mr. 
Redhorn  alone.  The  room  had  been  tidied  up. 

"  Whaur's  the  goat?"  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  gi'ed  it  to  Wullie  McWattie." 

Peter  could  scarcely  conceal  his  chagrin. 
Relying  on  the  painter's  timidity,  he  had 
reckoned  on  being,  himself,  presented  with  the 
prize. 

"  Was  the  goat  wild  ? "  he  asked,  with  a 
sharp  look,  and  a  meaning  grin,  as  he 
turned  to  go. 

But  Mr.  Redhorn  was  prepared  for  the 
question. 

"  A  wee  thing — frisky,"  he  replied.  And 
that  was  all  he  was  ever  known  to  say  about 
the  Fourth  Prize. 


VI 
HIS  CHARITY 

IN  a  moment  of  weakness,  Mr.  Kedhorn  had 
submitted  to  having  his  photograph  taken, 
an  astonishing  thing  to  anyone  who  knew 
him,  for  unless  when  carried  away  by  a  busi- 
ness or  philosophical  argument,  he  was  the 
most  modest,  nay,  the  shyest  of  men.  It  should 
be  explained,  however,  that  the  weakness  just 
mentioned  was  mainly  of  the  heart,  it  having 
been  induced  by  the  woeful  tale  of  an  itinerant 
photographer.  Mr.  Redhorn  swore  the  man  to 
secrecy,  and  underwent  the  ordeal  in  the 
privacy  of  his  back-yard.  On  receipt  of  the 
photographs,  he  glanced  at  them  once,  groaned, 
and  stuffed  the  packet  into  a  rarely  used 
drawer.  He  then  took  a  dose  of  physic  which 
he  favoured  during  his  occasional  attacks  of 
dyspepsia,  and  tried  hard  to  forget  the  matter. 
Perhaps  he  might  have  succeeded,  had  not 
the  itinerant,  some  months  later,  given  Fair- 
port  a  second  chance,  and  proclaimed  the 
painter's  patronage  to  all  and  sundry.  Where- 
upon the  ill-starred  Joseph  was  chaffed  to 
perspiration  point.  The  chaff  was  perfectly 
74 


HIS  CHARITY  75 

good-natured  save  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Danks. 
It  was  with  a  vicious  satisfaction  that  one 
wintry  afternoon  he  approached  Mr.  Redhorn, 
who  chanced  to  be  chatting  with  several  neigh- 
bours at  the  pier-head. 

"  I  say,  Ridhorn,  wha  was  ye  makin'  faces 
at?" 

"Me,  when?" 

"The  day  ye  got  photographed.    Eh?" 

"  That's  enough,  Danks.  That  joke  has  had 
its  day." 

"  But  I'm  no'  sae  sure  o'  that.  It's  ower  fine 
a  joke  to  let  it  dee  quick.  Ye  sud  wear  a  mask 
the  next  time  ye  get  photographed." 

"  Never  mind  him,  Ridhorn,"  interposed  one 
of  the  neighbours.  "  Neither  him  nor  onybody 
else  has  seen  yer  likeness.  He's  jist  teasin' 
ye." 

"  But  ye're  wrang  there !  I've  got  his  like- 
ness in  the  shop ! "  cried  Danks. 

"  Ye've  what !  " 

"  I've  got  it  in  the  shop.  The  man  had  it 
amang  his  samples.  I  gi'ed  him  ninepence  for 
it.  It's  worth  it ! "  And  the  fish-merchant 
guffawed. 

Mr.  Redhorn's  nails  bit  into  his  palms.  He 
opened  his  mouth;  often  in  the  past  he  had 
crushed  his  enemy  with  a  swift  if  somewhat 
ponderous  retort;  but  now  the  very  power  of 
speech  seemed  to  have  deserted  him.  He  closed 
his  mouth,  and  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  faint 
hiss. 


"  What  are  ye  laughin'  at,  Banks  ?  "  said  one 
of  the  group.  "  Ridhorn  can  get  his  likeness 
photographed  if  he  likes.  Ye've  nae  business 

"  I  wish  ye  wud  let  us  see  it,  Banks,"  put  in 
another,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  owe  the 
fishmonger  money. 

"  Ye're  welcome  to  see  it,"  returned  Mr. 
Banks,  checking  his  boisterous  laughter. 
"  Joseph  Ridhorn's  latest  portrait  is  noo  on 
exhibeetion — admission  free!  Efter  the  New 
Year,  I'll  maybe  chairge  a  penny  a  peep. 
But  this  day  week — I'll  stick  it  in  the  win- 
dow." 

"  See  here,"  said  the  painter,  finding  words 
at  last ;  "  I  canna  prevent  Banks  tryin'  to  mak' 
a  cod  o'  me,  but  I  can  praise  Providence  that 
I'll  never  be  as  like  a  cod  as  he  is."  (Mr. 
Banks's  countenance  did  indeed  bear  some 
resemblance  to  that  of  a  defunct  codfish.)  "  If 
he's  no'  carefu',  some  day  he'll  be  weighin'  his- 
seP,  an'  tyin'  hissel'  up  in  an  auld  newspaper, 
under  the  deluded  impression  that  he's  fit  for 
human  consumption." 

The  members  of  the  group,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  man  who  owed  Banks  money,  snig- 
gered, and  one  remarked :  "  That's  yin  to  him, 
Ridhorn ! " 

"Ye  think  ye're  funny,"  said  Banks;  "but 
it'll  be  a  while  afore  ye're  as  funny  as  yer  like- 
ness. I  suppose  ye'll  be  gettin'  a  gross  to  send 
oot  for  valenteens.  Binna  forget  that  I've  got 


HIS  CHARITY  77 

mines  in  advance.  Weel," — he  turned  to  the 
others, — "  is  ony  o'  you  chaps  comin'  up  to  see 
the  Ridhorn  panorama?  " 

Once  more  the  painter  was  at  a  loss,  and  the 
fishmonger  with  another  guffaw  walked  off,  fol- 
lowed by  his  debtor  and  two  villagers  whose 
curiosity  overpowered  their  regard  for  the  un- 
happy Joseph. 

"  I  call  ye  to  witness,"  cried  the  latter  to 
those  who  remained,  "  that  if  thon  wee  greeting 
ginger-whuskered,  photographic  deevil  sets  fit 
in  Fairport  again,  I'll  knock  the  face  aff  him 
an'  his  infernal  machine.  To  think  o'  me  get- 
tin'  photographed  oot  o'  pure  cherity,  an'  then 
him  sellin'  ma  likeness !  " 

"  But  Banks  had  nae  business  to  buy  it,"  a 
neighbour  observed. 

"  True,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  whose  passions 
usually  cooled  quickly ;  "  but  Banks  wasna 
owin'  me  gratitude — quite  the  obverse." 

"  Is  the  likeness  as  bad  as  he  pretendit?" 

"  Na,"  the  painter  replied  drearily.  "  It's 
no'  as  bad — it's  jist  a  billion  times  mair  ter- 
rible." And  adding  that  it  was  two  o'clock, 
Mr.  Redhorn  hurriedly  departed. 

He  had  to  pass  the  fishmonger's  shop,  and 
the  squawks  of  laughter  proceeding  thence  did 
not  comfort  him. 

All  afternoon  his  apprentice,  Willie,  found 
him  unusually  crusty.  "  Is  yer  inside  hurtin' 
ye  the  day?"  the  boy  once  asked. 

"  Na,  it's  ma  ootside." 


78    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

When  it  became  too  dark  for  work,  however, 
Mr.  Kedhorn  said— 

"  If  yer  mither's  no'  needin'  ye,  ye  best  tak' 
yer  tea  wi'  me  the  nicht,  laddie." 

Mr.  Redhorn,  having  finished  his  meal,  al- 
though his  apprentice  was  still  punishing  the 
bread  and  jam,  rose,  and  after  fumbling  for 
some  time  in  a  drawer,  produced  the  packet  of 
photographs.  With  man}7  misgivings  and  one 
faint  hope  he  handed  a  card  to  the  boy. 

"  Never  heed  wipin'  yer  fingers,"  he  said. 
"  There's  naething  to  spile." 

Willie  regarded  the  picture  with  a  grin. 

"  I  heard  ye  was  gettin'  tooken,"  he  said. 

"  Dae  ye  recognize  it,  Wullie?  " 

"  Ay.    It's  kin'  o'  comic,  but  it's  like  ye." 

"Comic,  laddie!  What's  comic  aboot  it?" 
asked  Mr.  Redhorn  in  a  voice  of  indignation 
mingled  with  shame.  "  There's  twa  things  I've 
never  been  in  fifty  years:  firstly,  the  worse  o' 
drink;  secondly,  comic." 

"  Weel,  maybe  it's  no'  comic,"  said  the  boy, 
who  once  in  a  while  seemed  to  realize  that  he 
could  hurt  his  master's  feelings.  "  I  meant  for 
to  say  it  was  funny." 

"  Funny !  Me  funny !  "  Mr.  Redhorn 
emitted  a  dolorous  cackle.  "  Ye'll  be  sayin' 
next  that  I'm  handsome — guid-lukin',  ye 
ken." 

"  I  wudna  say  that,"  said  Willie  promptly. 
"  But  it's  no'  as  funny  as  I  heard  it  was,"  he 


HIS  CHARITY  79 

added,  as  he  endeavoured  to  remove  a  sticky 
finger-mark  from  the  surface  of  the  photograph 
by  the  simple  process  of  rubbing  it  in. 

"  Dinna  fash  yerseP,  Wullie,"  said  his 
master  wearily.  "  I  tell't  ye  there  was  naething 
to  spile.  But — but  what  dae  ye  see  that's 
funny  aboot  the  caird?  " 

"  I  think  it's  yer  nose,"  Willie  replied,  after 
the  question  had  been  repeated. 

"  Ma  nose  ?  .  .  .  Weel,  I  canna  help  ma 
nose.  Was  it  no'  the  great  Lord  Nelson  that 
used  to  say :  '  Gi'e  me  a  man  wi'  a  nose '?  " 

"Had  a'  his  men  lost  their  noses?"  queried 
Willie,  much  interested.  "  Did  they  lose  them 
wi'  bullets  or  swords?" 

"  Na,  na,  Wullie ;  ye  see,  his  lordship  meant 
a  man  wi' — wi'  great  intelligence.  It  has  been 
asserted  by  philosophers,  philogists,  an'  ither 
learned  bodies,  that  muckle  noses  indicate 
muckle  brains.  It's  no'  for  me  to  preshume  to 
question  men  o'  that  stamp ;  I  can  but  humbly 
accep'  the  assertion — an'  the  compliment.  D'ye 
see,  laddie?" 

"  I  see,"  said  Willie,  who  wanted  to  get  on 
with  his  bread  and  jam,  but  who  was  not  un- 
used to  his  master's  dissertations.  "  Has  an 
elephant  got  a  muckle  brain?"  he  asked  sud- 
denly. 

"  Stupendous,"  the  painter  replied,  after  a 
brief  hesitation. 

"  I  never  seen  an  elephant  excep'  in  pictur- 
books." 


80    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  Did  ye  no'  ?  We'll  ha'e  to  rectify  that  some 
day,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn  kindly. 

"  I  wud  like  fine  to  see  an  elephant.  ... 
I  suppose  ye've  got  an  extra  big  brain,  Maister 
Ridhorn?" 

For  a  moment  Joseph  was  taken  aback. 
Then  with  modest  gratification  he  said :  "  Weel, 
laddie,  it's  no'  jist  for  me  to  say.  What  pit 
that  into  yer  heid?  Eh?"  He  laughed  and 
laid  a  kindly  hand  on  his  apprentice's  shoul- 
der. 

"  I  heard  a  chap  sayin',"  returned  Willie 
thoughtlessly,  "  that  Maister  Banks  had  said 
ye  wud  pass  for  an  elephant  if  yer  nose  was 
twa-three  inches  longer." 

Mr.  Redhorn's  hand  left  the  young  shoul- 
der and  gripped  the  back  of  the  boy's 
chair. 

"  Ay !  "  he  said  at  last ;  "  ay !  Jist  so ! 
'Mphm!  I  perceive  his  meanin';  likewise  the 
humour  o'  the  seetuation !  Ay !  " 

"What's  ado?"  asked  Willie  anxiously. 

"Naething,  laddie,"  replied  Mr.  Redhorn, 
pulling  himself  together.  "  A  mere  fleetin' 
spasm." 

"What's  that?" 

"  May  ye  never  ken."  Mr.  Redhorn  en- 
deavoured to  proceed  in  a  natural  tone  of 
voice,  and  began  an  octave  too  low.  After  a 
bit  of  coughing  he  said :  "  An'  so  ye  think 
ma  likeness  is  funny,  Wullie — espaycially  the 
—the  trunk?" 


HIS  CHARITY  81 

"  I  dinna  see  ony  trunk.  Are  ye  sittin'  on  it? 
I  see  a  thing  like  a  boax " 

"  I  meant  ma  nose." 

Willie  laughed  loudly.  "  The  elephant's " 

"  Ye're  welcome,"  said  the  painter.  "  When 
ye're  feenished,  I'll  be  gratified  to  hear  what 
ye  conseeder  funny  aboot  ma  nose." 

But  Willie  had  suddenly  become  uncomfort- 
able. 

"  I  dinna  see  onything  funny  aboot  yer  nose, 
Maister  Ridhorn,"  he  said  stolidly. 

"D'ye  see  onything — peculiar?  Come  on, 
laddie;  I  want  the  truth.  I — I  demand  it." 

"  It — it  luks  as  if  it  was  oot  o'  jint,"  said 
the  boy  at  last ;  "  it  luks  as  if  it  had  been 
— streetched." 

"  Proceed ! " 

"  It — it  luks  ridder  nor  it  is,  sir." 

"  Conteenue ! " 

But  Willie  rebelled.  "Am  I  no'  to  feenish 
ma  tea?"  he  inquired,  laying  down  the  photo- 
graph. 

Whatever  he  might  be,  Mr.  Redhorn  was 
humane.  He  returned  to  earth,  with  a  bump. 

"  'Deed,  ay,  Wullie ;  ye're  to  feenish  yer  tea. 
Help  yersel'.  Eat  a'  ye  can.  Enjey  yersel' 
when  ye're  young.  Tak'  mair  jam — tak'  plenty. 
...  I  like  ye,  laddie.  Ye've  nae  sentiment, 
an'  ye're  no'  a  flatterer.  As  I  said  afore,  I  per- 
ceive the  humour  o'  the  seetuation.  I  see 
what  Danks  an'  his  companions  are  laughin' 
at.  Let  them  laugh!  I'm  laughin'  masel'." 


Here  Mr.  Redhorn  made  curious  noises  which 
all  but  caused  Willie  to  choke.  "  I  say  I'm 
laughin'  masel',  but  at  them,  no'  wi'  them.  I'm 
laughin'  wi'  peety  at  their  eegnorance,  at  their 
want  o'  common,  scienteefic,  photographic 
knowledge.  They're  laughin'  at  ma  likeness  be- 
cause they  think  ma  nose  is  oot  o' — oot  o'  pro- 
portion; whereas,  as  ony  summer- veesitor,  or 
tourist,  or  amature  photographer  wud  inform 
them,  ma  nose  is  merely  oot  o'  focus — oot  o' 
focus,  neither  mair  nor  less !  " 

Mr.  Redhorn  concluded  his  remarks,  which 
were  spoken  with  great  rapidity,  with  a  fright- 
ful cackle;  then  snatching  up  the  photo- 
graph and  dashing  round  the  table,  he  thrust 
it  along  with  the  other  eleven  prints  into  the 
fire. 

Having  stirred  them  till  they  blazed,  he  ad- 
dressed them  with  these  words :  "  Him  that 
laughs  best,  laughs  last ! "  He  then  made  to 
draw  himself  erect,  with  the  intention,  no 
doubt,  of  delivering  a  further  oration  before 
his  astonished  apprentice,  but  his  head  en- 
countered the  mantelpiece  which,  fortunately, 
was  of  wood. 

"  Criftens !  "  he  ejaculated. 

"  Are  ye  hurtit?  "  inquired  Willie.  "  Is't  yer 
crust?" 

"  Ye  best  speir  at  the  mantelpiece,"  returned 
the  painter  ruefully,  rubbing  the  bruise. 
"  What  was  I  sayin',  laddie,  afore  I  dunted  ma 
heid  ?  "  he  asked  presently. 


HIS  CHARITY  83 

"Ye  was  sayin'  a  heap  o'  things.  Ye 
said " 

"  Forget  them,  laddie !  I  was  cairried  awa'. 
Ma  indignation  got  the  better  o'  me,  but  I  sud 
ha'e  corkit  it  up."  Mr.  Redhorn  wiped  his  eyes, 
and  continued :  "  Efter  a',  an'  when  a's  said  an' 
done,  there's  naething  like  a  bit  pheesical  pain 
for  causin'  ye  to  neglec'  mental  agony.  Is 
there  a  lump  on  ma  heid  ?  " 

"  It's  wee  yet,"  answered  Willie,  "  but  it'll 
maybe  rise." 

"  That's  possible."  Mr.  Redhorn  came  to  the 
table,  and  applied  a  little  butter  to  the  bruise. 
"  It's  guid  for  the  hair  onywey,"  he  remarked 
philosophically.  "  See  an'  tak'  plenty  jam, 
Wullie." 

"The  pot's  emp'y." 

"  Is't?  'Deed,  ye're  a  whale  for  jam!  Wait 
till  I  get  anither  pot.  .  .  .  An'  ye  needna 
mention  the  photographs  to  onybody.  Wull  ye 
mind  that?" 

"  Ay,"  said  the  boy.  "  Wull  I  no'  say  ony- 
thing  aboot  yer  nose  bein'  oot  o'  focus — what's 
a  focus  ?  " 

"  Say  naething  whatever.  Dumb  folk  never 
get  into  trouble,  excep'  when  they're  deef  for- 
bye,  an'  then  they  can  aye  blame  the  motors." 

"But  what's " 

"  Pey  attention  to  yer  eatin',"  said  Mr.  Red- 
horn  a  trifle  sharply.  "  Regaird  ma  previous 
remarks  as  merely  humorous,  as  the  young 
man  said  to  the  young  leddy  efter  declarin'  his 


84    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

passion.  But  if  ye  ever  happen  to  see  a  wee 
man  wi'  ginger  whuskers  an'  a  photographic 
stock-in-trade  snokin'  aboot  Fairport,  inform 
m  wi'oot  fractional  delay." 

"  Ay,"  said  Willie,  finding  the  new  jam  much 
to  his  taste.  "  Are  ye  for  gettin'  tooken 
again  ?  " 

"  Maybe  as  a  murderer,  Wullie,  maybe  as  a 
murderer,"  muttered  the  painter,  as  he  lit  a 
cigarette. 

"Gor!"  remarked  the  apprentice,  who  was 
used  to  extraordinary  observations,  which  he 
did  not  always  understand,  from  his  host,  "  it's 
you  for  the  comic !  " 

After  which  Mr.  Redhorn  relapsed  into  a 
gloomy  silence  that  lasted  until  Willie  an- 
nounced his  sense  of  repletion  and  the  neces- 
sity for  his  departure. 

To  a  man  of  Joseph  Redhorn's  sensitive  na- 
ture, the  situation  was  fraught  with  misery. 
Ordinary  chaff  he  could  endure,  but  to  have 
his  likeness,  or  rather  caricature,  as  he  re- 
garded it,  exposed  in  the  fishmonger's  window 
was  too  much  to  be  borne.  Knowing  his 
enemy's  spitefulness  of  old,  he  could  not  doubt 
that  Danks  would  carry  his  threat  into  effect, 
and  he  racked  his  brains  in  vain  for  ways  and 
means  of  escape  from  the  approaching  humili- 
ation. WTorst  of  all  he  had  visions  of  Willie's 
widowed  mother,  for  whom  he  had  now  a  more 
than  friendly  regard,  joining  the  sniggering 


HIS  CHARITY  85 

throng  on  Christmas  day.  It  was  all  he  could 
do  to  attend  to  his  business,  and  his  nights 
were  spent  in  impatient  writhings  and  frantic 
concocting  of  plans,  which  fell  to  pieces  in  the 
light  of  the  day. 

On  the  day  before  the  fulfilment  of  the  fish- 
monger's threat,  he  was  near  his  wits'  end. 
The  weather  being  wet  and  stormy,  and  busi- 
ness non-existent,  he  was  occupying  his  hands, 
but  not  his  mind,  in  tidying  up  his  paint  store. 
His  weary  brain  was  still  weaving  flimsy, 
foolish  schemes  for  the  checkmating  of  the 
fishmonger. 

"  It's  nae  use/'  he  said  at  last,  for  the 
hundredth  time. 

Just  then  Willie,  who  had  been  sent  to  fetch 
a  parcel  from  the  midday  steamer,  appeared. 
He  had  evidently  been  running. 

"Whaur's  the  paircel,  laddie?  Did  it  no' 
come  wi'  the  boat?"  Mr.  Redhorn  demanded. 

"  Ay,  but  I  cam'  to  tell  ye  that  Ginger 
Whuskers  is  cominV 

"What's  that?" 

"  Ginger  Whuskers — the  photograph  man — 
d'ye  no'  mind  ye  tell't  me " 

"  Is  he  comin'  here  ?  " 

"  Ay.  I  heard  him  speirin'  for  ye.  But  he 
hadna  got  his  machine." 

Mr.  Redhorn  drew  a  mighty  breath.  Then 
he  said:  "Ye  can  gang  hame  to  yer  dinner 
noo,  Wullie." 

"  But  it's  ower  early." 


"  Gang  hame  when  I  tell  ye." 

"  But  the  paircel — 

«  Gang ! " 

Willie  sulkily  withdrew  round  the  corner  of 
the  shed. 

"  Better  wantin'  witnesses,"  muttered  Mr. 
Redhorn,  and  shut  the  door  softly.  He  then 
took  off  his  coat,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and 
doubled  his  fists.  "  I  never  yet  struck  man  nor 
beast,"  he  reflected,  "  but " 

A  timid  tap  fell  on  the  door. 

"  Come  ben ! "  commanded  the  painter 
hoarsely. 

The  door  opened  slowly.  The  bitter  blast 
that  entered  was  accompanied  by  the  dripping 
figure  of  a  man  of  mean  stature  and  deplorable 
physique. 

Mr.  Redhorn  was  seized  with  a  violent  attack 
of  sneezing. 

"  Cold  day,"  said  the  visitor,  closing  the 
door.  "  I  called— 

"What  d'ye  want?"  Mr.  Redhorn  demanded 
from  behind  a  large  red  handkerchief,  with 
considerably  less  ferocity  than  might  have  been 
expected. 

"  I  called,"  repeated  the  visitor  mildly,  "  to 
see  how  you  were  pleased  with  your  photo- 
graphs." 

"  What !  Ha'e  ye  actually  got  the  neck  to — 
to "  Another  sneeze  cut  the  sentence  short. 

The  dripping  figure  held  up  a  bluish  hand. 
"  Mr.  Redhorn,  allow  me  to  say  that  I  took 


HIS  CHARITY  87 

special  pains  with  your  photograph,  on  ac- 
count of  your  great  kindness  to  me.  Honestly 
I  did  all  I  could  to  make  the  result  gratifying 
to  you.  I  assure  you " 

Mr.  Redhorn  put  away  his  handkerchief,  but 
forgot  to  double  his  fists. 

"  Dae  ye  want  to  get  kilt?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon?  " 

"  Kilt — slain — slaughtered — murdered !  I'm 
askin'  ye ! " 

The  other  drew  back.  "  I  don't  understand," 
he  said,  looking  more  puzzled  than  alarmed. 
"  I  called,  hoping  that  the  photos  had  pleased 
you,  and  hoping  also  that  you  would  see  your 
way  to  give  me  your  kind  order  for  another 
dozen,  on  the  same  terms  as  last — cash  with 
order.  Things,"  added  the  little  man  with  a 
large  sigh,  "  are  terrible  bad  with  me  at 
present." 

It  took  Mr.  Redhorn  nearly  a  minute  to  re- 
cover from  the  stupefaction  induced  by  the 
visitor's  calm,  melancholy  speech. 

"  That's  enough,"  he  said  sternly.  "  I'm  no' 
as  saft  as  some  folks  maybe  think  me.  Ye've 
got  a'  ye'll  ever  get  frae  Joseph  Ridhorn,  ex- 
cep'  a  sample  o'  corporeal  punishment,  which 
I've  decidet  to  owe  ye  in  the  meantime.  Noo, 
get  oot  o'  this  as  quick  as  ye  can,  for  yer 
presence  to  me  is  onything  but  tasteful."  Mr. 
Redhorn  waved  his  hand  towards  the  door,  and 
inadvertently  kicked  over  a  pot  of  green  paint. 
"  See  what  ye've  made  me  dae,"  he  went  on  ir- 


88    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

ritably.  "  Could  ye  no'  ha'e  been  content  wi* 
pittin'  ma  nose  oot  o'  focus,  forbye " 

"  Mr.  Redhorn,"  said  the  little  man,  with 
an  involuntary  shiver,  "  I  appreciate  your 
jokes,  but  I'm  sorry  I  can't  make  any  myself 
to-day.  You  were  kind  to  me  once;  I  hope 
you  will  be  the  same  again  by  giving  me  a  re- 
peat order.  I  would  gladly  offer  you  a  new 
sitting,  but — well,  I'm  ashamed  to  say  that 
my  camera  is  at  present  in — in  pawn.  As  I 
said  already,  things  are  very  bad  with  me  at 
present.  I — I  do  not  know  where  to  turn. 
I  have  a  wife  and  three  children,  Mr.  Red- 
horn " 

The  painter,  engaged  in  mopping  up  the  mess 
of  paint,  did  not  raise  his  head.  "  That's  a 
peetifu'  state  o'  affairs,  but  I  doot  I  canna 
dae  onything  for  ye,"  he  said.  "  In  fac'  I'm 
no'  disposed  to  forgi'e  ye.  What  business  had 
ye,"  he  demanded  abruptly,  "  to  sell  that  caird 
o'  mines  to  Banks,  the  fishmonger?" 

The  dripping  figure  seemed  to  waver. 

"  I'm  sorry  if  that  offended  you,  Mr.  Red- 
horn,"  it  said  feebly,  at  last.  "  But  Mr. 
Banks  declared  he  was  a  particular  friend  of 
yours " 

"Oh,  the  lee!" 

" — and  I  was  tempted.  .  .  .  The  truth  is, 
I  was  very  hungry  that  day.  I  had  missed 
breakfast,  and " 

"Ye  was  what?"  The  painter  looked  up 
sharply. 


HIS  CHARITY  89 

The  wretched  little  man  bowed  his  head. 

Mr.  Redhorn  rose. 

"  Are  ye  hungry  the  noo  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Tell  me,  man ! — crif tens !  Ye're  fair 
drookit! — ha'e  ye  had  yer  breakfast  the  day?" 

"  N— not  yet." 

"Joseph  Ridhorn,"  the  painter  muttered, 
"never  daur  to  ca'  yersel'  a  Christian  again." 
Seizing  the  photographer  by  the  arm,  he  flung 
open  the  door.  "  Come  awa',  man !  Ma  hoose 
is  near  by." 

Willie,  the  eavesdropper,  went  home  to  his 
dinner  grievously  disappointed.  He  had  ex- 
pected something  much  more  exciting. 

The  afternoon  steamer  bore  away  the  photog- 
rapher, no  longer  dripping  and  starving,  but 
warmed  and  filled;  no  longer  despairing,  but 
hoping.  Before  leaving  Fairport,  he  had  tried 
to  recover  the  photo  from  Banks,  who  had 
flatly  refused  to  part  with  it.  Mr.  Redhorn 
did  not  go  to  see  him  off,  being  threatened  with 
a  cold  in  the  head,  which  malady  in  his  case 
was  invariably  severe.  He  sat  by  the  fire,  try- 
ing old-fashioned  remedies,  while  depression 
claimed  him  for  its  own.  The  miseries  of 
others  do  not  always  prove  antidotes  to  one's 
own.  The  mind's  eye  of  Joseph  Redhorn  was 
exclusively  occupied  by  a  vision  of  the  fish- 
monger's window  and  his  likeness  in  the  midst 
thereof. 


90    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

At  five  o'clock  Willie  appeared. 

"What  d'ye  want,  laddie?"  inquired  the 
painter  impatiently. 

"  Ye  said  I  was  to  come  for  ma  tea  the 
nicht." 

"Mercy!    So  I  did !" 

" — an'  Danks  said  I  was  to  gi'e  ye  this." 

"What's  this?"  Mr.  Redhorn  tore  off  the 
soiled  newspaper  and  disclosed  his  own  fea- 
tures— according,  as  he  afterwards  said,  to  the 
camera.  "  Weel,  I  never!  "  he  shouted  joyfully. 
"  I  didna  think  it  o'  Danks.  Did  he  say  nae- 
thing,  Wullie?  Nae  message?" 

"  He  said  ye  was  to  luk  at  the  back." 

Mr.  Redhorn  turned  the  card,  and  read  in 
large  writing — 

"Hopping  you  will  have  a  merrier  X-mas  than  you 
look.— P.  DANKS." 

Mr.  Redhorn  laughed,  sneezed,  and  laughed 
again. 

"  Wullie,"  he  cried  almost  gaily,  "  set  the 
table,  an'  I'll  bring  ye  back  something  nice." 

Grabbing  his  cap,  he  fled  from  the  house,  and 
to  the  shop  of  Peter  Danks. 

"  Danks,"  he  said  warmly,  "  ye're  a  better 
man  than  I  thocht." 

"  Ye're  nae  worse,  Ridhorn,"  returned  Mr. 
Danks  coolly.  "  I  doot  ye've  seen  the  last  o' 
yer  twa  pounds  an'  yer  overcoat,"  he  added. 

Mr.  Redhorn  blushed.  "  He  didna  need  to 
ha'e  tell't  ye  that." 


HIS  CHARITY  91 

"  Weel,  I'm  thinkin'  ye've  lost  them  onywey." 

"  We'll  see,"  said  the  painter  cheerfully. 
"  Time  alane  can  tell,  as  the  poet  says."  After 
some  hesitation  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  As  ye  please/'  replied  the  fishmonger. 
"  But  mind,  I'm  no'  feenished  wi'  ye  yet,  Rid- 
horn." 

"  I'll  risk  that,"  Mr.  Redhorn  returned,  and 
shook  hands  again. 

People  with  abnormally  developed  business 
instincts  may  desire  information  as  to  whether 
the  itinerant  photographer  ever  returned  the 
loan.  Well,  no;  he  has  not  yet  done  so — in 
mere  filthy  lucre,  at  least;  but  about  a  couple 
of  years  after  the  transaction,  Mr.  Redhorn 
received  a  nicely  mounted  enlargement  of  his 
likeness,  some  3ft.  by  2ft.  in  extent,  along  with 
compliments  and  also  some  more  or  less  in- 
teresting details  concerning  the  costs  of  frames 
suitable  for  the  aforesaid  enlargement. 


VII 
HIS  YOUTH 

MB.  REDHORN  looked  up  from  his 
work — a  large  four-oared  boat  in 
process  of  being  painted  white. 

"  Wullie,"  he  said  a  trifle  sternly,  "  pey  at- 
tention to  yer  job,  an'  dinna  heed  the  sea- 
gulls." 

"  I  wasna  lukin'  at  the  sea-gulls,"  the  ap- 
prentice retorted. 

"  I  thocht  ye  was.  What  was  ye  lukin'  at, 
then?" 

"  Naething." 

"  Aweel,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn  after  a  short 
pause,  "ye  better  luk  at  the  boat-hoose,  be- 
cause it's  got  to  be  feenished  the  nicht.  I 
promised  Maister  Matheson  I  wud  complete 
the  job,  certain,  sure,  at  sax  p.  m. — an'  it's  got 
to  be  done!  The  word  o'  a  Ridhorn  has  never 
been  broke — excep',  maybe,  under  unique  cir- 
cumstances. The  pentin'  tred  has,  dootless,  a 
bad  name  for  procrastination " 

"What's  that,  Maister  Ridhorn?" 

"  Hunkerslidin',  or — or  footerin'.  But  I  can 
truthfully  say  I  never  practised  it  intentional. 
Apply  yersel'  to  yer  task,  laddie,  an'  ye'll  be 
92 


HIS  YOUTH  93 

happy.  Dae  yer  best,  an'  ye'll  never  be  con- 
foundit,  nor  ashamed  to  receive  peyment  o' 
yer  accoonts  when  due — or  itherwise." 

"  Are  folks  whiles  ashamed  to  get  peyment  o' 
their  accoonts?"  the  apprentice  inquired,  with 
a  view  to  prolonging  the  conversation. 

"  Some  folk'll  be  sair  ashamed  later  on," 
said  Mr.  Bedhorn  solemnly.  "  Some  folk'll 
no'  be  extra  pleased  to  meet  their  customers  in 
the  next  warld,  I'm  thinkin'!  Strive  to  gi'e 
yer  customers — when  ye  get  them — the  best 
value  possible,  an'  then  ye'll  avoid  disagree- 
able reunions  ayont  the  tomb.  Noo  proceed  wi' 
yer  occupation." 

Mr.  Kedhorn  dipped  his  brush,  preparatory 
to  resuming  operations. 

"  This  is  an  awfu'  ugly  colour,"  remarked 
Willie,  eyeing  his  own  paint-pot  with  great 
disfavour. 

"  Ugly ! "  exclaimed  his  master,  wheeling 
round,  brush  poised  in  the  air.  "  What's  ugly 
aboot  it?" 

"  I  dinna  like  dark  broon,"  said  the  boy. 
"  If  this  was  ma  boat-hoose,  I  wud  pent  it  a 
bonnier  colour." 

Mr.  Redhorn  smiled  leniently. 

"  That's  because  ye're  young,  Wullie.  In  the 
days  o'  ma  youth,  I  daursay  I  wud  ha'e  con- 
seedered  dark  broon  ugly  enough,  an'  I  wud 
ha'e  been  for  pentin'  the  boat-hoose  saumon- 
pink,  or  sky-bew,  or  maybe  pea-green.  Youth 
prefers  the  fancy  colours  to  the  suitable  sort. 


Later  on  ye'll  ken  better  what's  appropriate  an' 
what's  unappropriate.  But,  as  a  rule,  ye'll  ha'e 
to  lay  on  the  colour  yer  customer  chooses.  I'm 
no'  sayin'  ye  sud  never  advise  a  customer 
agin  makin'  a  spectacular  monstrosity  o'  his 
property.  In  ma  time,  I  can  modestly  say  I've 
saved  mony  a  pairty  frae  his  or  her  atrocious 
notions.  But  it's  got  to  be  done  wi'  the  ut- 
maist  discreetion,  laddie,  the  utmaist  discree- 
tion.  There's  occasions  when  it's  best  to 
agree — espaycially  when  it's  a  big  job — an'  jist 
dae  whatever  the  customer  requests  ye  to  dae, 
though  ye're  weel  aware  that  ye're  creatin'  an 
eyesore  that'll  haunt  ye  for  years.  In  the 
meantime,  pey  attention  to  yer  present 
duty." 

"  But,  Maister  Ridhorn,  is  it  a'  the  same  to 
you  whether  ye're  pentin'  wi'  bonny  colours  or 
pentin'  wi'  ugly  yins  ?  " 

"  There's  nae  ugly  colours,  laddie.  In  the 
days  o'  ma  youth,  I  maybe  thocht  there  was, 
but  ye  get  wicer  as  ye  get  aulder.  Noo — 

"  But  wud  ye  be  jist  as  pleased  to  be  pentin' 
the  hoose  dark  broon  as  the  boat  white  ?  " 

"Jist  as  pleased,  Wullie,  jist  as  pleased. 
For  ye  see " 

"  Then  I  wish  ye  wud  swop  pents,  an'  let  me 
ha'e  a  shot  at  the  boat." 

Mr.  Redhorn  shook  his  head,  saying — 

"  Ah,  but  ye're  no'  ready  for  marine  pentin' ; 
ye  ha'ena  suffeecient  experience.  Ye  maun  be 
content  wi'  plain  jobs  for  a  while,  yet." 


HIS  YOUTH  95 

"  Did  ye  never  get  pentin'  a  boat  when  ye 
was  young — in  the  days  o'  yer  youth  ?  " 

"  I  did — an'  a  queer  mess  I  made !  It  tak's 
a  heap  o'  practice  to  mak'  a  nice  job  o'  a  boat. 
But  noo  we  maun  draw  wur  conversation  to 
a  close,  as  the  novelles  say.  We'll  need  to  tak' 
ten  meenutes  less  nor  usual  to  wur  dinner  the 
day.  Nae  man  can  say  that  Joseph  Kidhorn 
chairged  him  for  wastit  time." 

"  But,  Maister  Ridhorn " 

"  Haud  yer  tongue,  an'  dae  yer  duty,"  said 
the  master-painter,  with  a  touch  of  asperity. 

For  half  an  hour  or  so  they  wrought  in 
silence.  At  last,  however,  Willie  had  to  give 
vent  to  the  idea  which  had  been  unsettling  his 
mind  all  morning. 

"  There  a  menagerie  at  Ardmartin  the  day," 
he  remarked,  in  an  extremely  careless  tone  of 
voice. 

"  A  what?"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  without  stop- 
ping work. 

"  A  menagerie — wild  beasts,  ye  ken,"  said 
Willie,  not  quite  so  carelessly  as  before. 

The  interest  evinced  by  Mr.  Redhorn  was 
disappointingly  small. 

"  Aw,"  he  muttered. 

"  It's  to  be  at  Ardmartin  jist  for  the  day," 
the  boy  observed,  after  a  short  pause.  "  It's 
gaun  awa'  the  morn." 

"Is  it?" 

"  I  wish  it  had  been  stoppin'  till  Seturday." 

"  'Deed  ay,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn  equably. 


96    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  Some  o'  the  Fairport  chaps  are  gaun  to  see 
it  this  efternune,"  the  boy  pursued,  with  a 
stealthy  glance  at  his  master,  who  was  now 
quite  immersed  in  his  work.  "  Bob  M'Fee  is 
drivin'  them  a'  in  his  cairt.  He  sterts  at  twa 
o'clock." 

Mr.  Redhorn  offered  no  remark  upon  this 
piece  of  information. 

Willie  sighed,  and  made  a  few  unenthusiastic 
strokes  with  his  brush.  Then — 

"  Bob  M'Fee  askit  me  to  gang  in  his  cairt, 
Maister  Ridhorn." 

"Did  he?  .  .  .  This  boat's  vera  licht  for 
its  size.  Maister  Matheson  wud  pey  a  guid 
penny  for  it  when  it  was  new.  .  .  .  Hoo  are 
ye  gettin'  on  there,  laddie  ?  "  The  painter  put 
the  inquiry  without  raising  his  eyes. 

"  Weel  enough,"  replied  Willie,  in  a  rather 
sulky  voice. 

A  silence  followed,  during  which  he  did  some 
extremely  poor  painting,  and  then  he  spoke 
again. 

"  Maister  Ridhorn,  did  ye  ever  see  a 
menagerie  ?  " 

"Oh,  ay,  I've  seen  a  menagerie — sundry 
menageries,  to  be  exac'." 

"Did  ye  like  them?" 

"  Fine !  Menageries  is  exceedin'ly  instruc- 
tive." 

"  I've  never  seen  a  menagerie." 

"Ha'e  ye  no'?  But  ye're  young  yet — ye're 
young  yet." 


HIS  YOUTH  97 

"  Did  ye  no'  get  seein'  ony  menageries  when 
ye  was  young — in  the  days  o'  yer  youth  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ay ;  I  seen  them  when  I  was  young.  I 
may  say  I  was  a  great  lover  o'  menageries  in 
the  days  o'  ma  youth,  Wullie.  In  fac',  I  was 
ower  fond  o'  them.  I  mind  plunkin'  the  schule 
to  gang  to  a  menagerie,  an'  anither  time  I  ran 
awa'  frae  ma  wark — I  was  servin'  ma  appren- 
ticeship then — to  see  a  circus.  Ma  maister  was 
unco  angry  at  me." 

Willie  let  his  brush  sink  deep  in  the  pot, 
and  asked  eagerly — 

"  Did  he  gi'e  ye  the  kick?  " 

"  Na ;  but  I  deserved  it." 

"  I  suppose  he  was  a  kind  man,  Maister 
Eidhorn?" 

"  He  was  that.    But  I  was  a  bad  laddie." 

"  Ye  wasna  that  bad,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

The  painter  smiled. 

"  Weel,"  he  said  modestly,  "  I  presume  I  was 
jist  like  ither  laddies.  Youth  maun  ha'e  its 
fling,  as  the  poet  says." 

Mr.  Redhorn  relapsed  into  busy  silence,  and 
until  dinner  time — one  o'clock — his  assistant 
also  painted  industriously. 

"  Mind  an'  be  back  here  at  ten  meenutes 
afore  twa,"  said  the  former  as  they  parted. 

Joseph  Redhorn's  temper  was  usually  of  the 
mildest,  but  it  so  happened  that  he  was  suf- 
fering on  this  particular  day  from  an  attack  of 
dyspepsia,  induced,  in  all  probability,  by  a 


98    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

somewhat  incautious  consumption  of  pancakes 
the  previous  evening.  The  pancakes,  by  the 
way,  had  been  a  present  from  the  comely 
widow,  Willie's  mother.  Dyspepsia  was  an  old 
enemy  of  Joseph's,  but  for  a  considerable  time 
he  had  baffled  it,  as  he  was  fond  of  declaring, 
with  the  aid  of  a  certain  patent  medicine. 
Therefore,  its  return  depressed  as  well  as  pained 
him,  and,  though  not  of  a  romantic  disposition, 
he  could  not  help  wishing  that  the  cause  of 
his  discomfort  had  come  from  other  hands. 

As  he  resumed  work  in  the  hot  October  sun- 
shine, at  a  quarter  to  two,  he  regretted  his 
faithful  promise  to  his  customer,  Mr.  Mathe- 
son.  His  eyes  ached  and  his  temples  throbbed. 
But  his  undistinguished  visage  wore  a  look  of 
grim  determination,  and  for  half  an  hour  he 
wrought  steadily  and  conscientiously,  telling 
himself  that  Willie's  delay  in  returning  was 
doubtless  due  to  the  lad's  mother,  who  had  no 
one  else  to  help  her  with  odd  jobs.  He  also 
assured  himself  that  Willie,  once  Tie  heard  of 
the  dyspepsia,  would  do  his  level  best  to  make 
up  for  lost  time.  Mr.  Redhorn  had  frequently 
found  his  apprentice  idle  and  careless,  but 
never  unsympathetic. 

Yet  when  three  o'clock  came — with  no  sign 
of  Willie — the  painter  could  not  have  denied 
that  he  was  extremely  annoyed.  Standing  up- 
right and  pushing  back  his  cap,  he  clutched  his 
aching  brow  and  gazed  down  the  yellow  road 
that  ran  along  the  shore  in  the  direction  of  the 


HIS  YOUTH  99 

boy's  home.  The  road  was  empty.  Willie  had 
not  even  left  the  cottage.  Mr.  Redhorn  emitted 
a  groan  of  dissatisfaction,  and  once  more  ap- 
plied himself  to  his  task. 

He  was  soon  disturbed,  however,  and  by  his 
other  old  enemy,  Mr.  Peter  Banks. 

He  came  along  the  shore  towards  the  painter 
as  one  who  is  rather  pleased  to  be  the  bearer 
of  unpleasant  tidings.  Some  people  are  like 
that. 

"  Ye're  busy,  Ridhorn,"  he  remarked,  halting 
a  couple  of  yards  from  the  boat,  and  surveying 
Joseph  with  a  patronizing  grin. 

"  Ay,  I'm  busy,"  said  the  painter,  curtly. 

"  But  no'  ower  busy  to  gi'e  yer  apprentice  a 
hauf-holiday." 

"  Eh?  "  Mr.  Redhorn  started  and  looked  up, 
then  resumed  his  painting  in  a  hurry. 

"  I'm  sayin'  ye're  no'  ower  busy  to  gi'e  yer 
apprentice  a  hauf-holiday,"  pursued  Mr.  Banks. 
"  I  seen  him  along  the  road  there,  gettin'  into 
M'Fee's  cairt,  boun'  for  Ardmartin." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  "  d-d-did  ye?  " 

"  Ay,  as  clear  as  I  see  that  boat  ye're  pentin'. 
I'm  thinkin',  Ridhorn,  ye'll  kill  that  laddie  wi' 
kindness.  I  maun  say  I  was  surprised  to  see 
him  aff  on  the  ran-dan  when  his  maister  was 
sae  busy." 

"  Aw ! "  muttered  Mr.  Redhorn,  conscious 
that  the  other's  small,  sharp  eyes  were  keenly 
watching  him. 

"  Of  course,   I'm  presumin'  the  laddie  got 


100   WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

leave  to  gang  to  Ardmartin.  I  thocht  o' 
speirin'  at  his  mither  when  I  was  passin'  the 
cottage,  but " 

Joseph  pulled  himself  together.  Not  for 
worlds  would  he  have  Banks  know  the  true 
state  of  affairs.  He  knew  that  Banks  still 
resented  his  having  made  Willie  his  appren- 
tice; he  was  aware  that  Banks  had  once  been 
snubbed  by  Willie's  mother;  and  he  was  used 
to  Banks's  innuendoes  against  the  boy's  char- 
acter. 

"  There's  naething  extr'or'nar'  in  Wullie 
gaun  to  see  the  menagerie  at  Ardmartin — is 
there?"  he  asked,  not  quite  steadily,  meeting 
the  small  sharp  eyes,  which  were  immediately 
shifted. 

"  Menagerie !  "  Mr.  Banks  burst  into  a  high 
cackling  laugh.  "  Menagerie,  did  ye  say?  " 

"  Ay,  I  said  menagerie — if  ye  ken  what  that 
is."  said  Mr.  Redhorn ;  adding  sarcastically,  "  I 
suppose  an  aquarium's  mair  in  your  line !  " 

But  Mr.  Banks  continued  to  cackle  for 
nearly  a  minute. 

"  My !  that's  a  guid  yin ! "  he  exclaimed  at 
last.  "  They've  made  a  mistake  aboot  the  day. 
The  menagerie  was  at  Ardmartin  yesterday. 
Guid  kens  whaur  it  is  noo!  M'Fee  an'  the 
rest  o'  them'll  be  wild — they'll  ha'e  a  menagerie 
o'  their  ain.  It  wud  serve  yer  apprentice  richt, 
supposin'  he  had  ta'en  French  leave  the  day 
an'  left  ye  wi'  mair  wark  nor  ye  can  feenish 
by  yersel'!  Eh,  Ridhorn?" 


HIS  YOUTH  101 

Joseph  recoiled. 

"  Wh-wha  was  tellin'  ye  I  had  mair  wark  nor 
I  could  feenish  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Oh,  it's  jist  a  bit  joke  that's  gaun  aboot 
Fairport  the  day.  Maister  Matheson,  on  the 
pier  this  mornin',  said  to  a  freen'  that  he  wud 
eat  his  hat  if  Ridhorn  the  penter  had  the  boat 
an'  boat-hoose  feenished  the  nicht.  He  said  a' 
penters  was  alike  at  makin'  fair  promises." 

At  these  words  Joseph  became  scarlet  with 
indignation. 

"  So  ye  see,"  said  Danks,  grinning,  "  that  was 
why  I  was  surprised  at  ye  lettin'  yer  assistant 
aff  the  day.  For  ye  canna  feenish  the  job  yer- 
seP." 

"  Ay,  but  I  can ! "  spluttered  Joseph. 

"  Na,  ye  canna !  It'll  be  dark  afore  seeven 
the  nicht.  Onybody  wi'  hauf  an  e'e  could  see 
that  ye  canna  feenish  it.  If  ye  dae  feenish  it, 
the  pentin'  '11  be  improperly  executed.  I'll  tak' 
on  a  bet,  if  ye  like,  Ridhorn." 

"  Oh,  get  awa'  f rae  me ! "  cried  the  unhappy 
painter. 

"  What  wey  did  ye  no'  keep  the  laddie  at  his 
wark?"  Mr.  Danks  inquired,  coolly  proceeding 
to  light  his  pipe.  "  It's  a  peety  to  disapp'int  a' 
the  folk  that  was  waiting  to  see  Maister 
Matheson  eatin'  his  hat  this  evenin'.  But  I 
suppose  ye're  used  to  apologizin'  for  unavoid- 
able delays " 

"  That's  enough,  Danks !  "  shouted  Joseph, 
now  thoroughly  roused.  "  Ye've  had  to  apolo- 


102    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

gize  for  yer  fish  afore  noo.  Mind  yer  ain  busi- 
ness, and  I'll  mind  mines !  Get  oot  ma  sicht !  " 

Mr.  Banks  retired  a  couple  of  paces,  took  a 
pull  or  two  at  his  pipe,  spat,  and  put  the 
question  direct — 

"  Did  ye  gi'e  the  laddie  leave  to  gang  to 
Ardmartin?" 

"  It's  nane  o'  your  business,  man !  " 

"  It's  a  ceevil  question." 

"  I've  nae  time  for  conversation."  Mr.  Red- 
horn  dipped  his  brush  and  bent  over  the  boat. 

"  I  dinna  believe  ye  let  him  gang." 

"  It's  nae  odds  what  ye  believe,  Peter  Danks. 
Awa'  hame  an'  pey  attention  to  yer  fish — that's 
to  say  if  they're  no'  entirely  beyond  human 
aid." 

"  Ye'll  be  the  laughin'-stock  o'  Fairport  the 
nicht,"  retorted  Danks,  and  strolled  away. 

In  the  dusk,  Mr.  Redhorn  endured  the  good- 
natured  banter  of  Mr.  Matheson  and  two  of 
the  latter's  friends,  and,  after  their  departure, 
the  broader  jibes  of  several  of  his  neighbours. 
He  painted  doggedly  until  he  could  no  longer 
see  what  he  was  doing,  and  then  reluctantly 
quitted  the  scene  of  his  labours,  feeling  beaten 
and  affronted. 

Within  his  bachelor  apartment  he  drank 
some  hot  wrater  and  ate  some  dry  bread,  while 
he  sadly  eyed  a  fresh  pot  of  jam  purchased  for 
the  enjoyment  of  Willie,  whom  he  had  intended 
inviting  to  tea  that  evening. 


HIS  YOUTH  103 

"  This  ends  it,"  Mr.  Redhorn  bitterly  re- 
flected. "  This  time  I  canna  forgi'e  him,  even 
for  his  mither's  sake.  She'll  ha'e  to  get  him  a 
job  wi'  somebody  that's  stricter  nor  me.  I've 
excused  him  a  score  o'  times,  but  he's  gaun 
ower  the  score  this  time.  I'm  done  wi'  him. 
I'll  dismiss  him  first  thing  the  morn's  mornin'. 
If  he  had  the  impiddence  to  show  face  the 
nicht,  I  believe  I  wud  lift  ma  haun'  to  him,  an' 
I've  never  done  that  to  man  nor  beast.  Aw !  to 
think  the  laddie  wud  treat  me  like  this,  efter 
a'  the  chances  he's  had." 

Mr.  Redhorn  further  added  to  his  wretched- 
ness by  brooding  on  the  probable  results  of  the 
lad's  dismissal.  While  it  would  be  a  sad  blow 
to  the  widow,  it  would  doubtless  prove  a  rich 
delight  to  Peter  Banks;  and  Joseph  was  as 
averse  from  causing  the  least  trouble  to  the 
one  as  from  giving  the  slightest  satisfaction  to 
the  other.  Banks  would  never  let  him  hear 
the  end  of  it.  Nevertheless,  Joseph  repeated  to 
himself  that  he  was  done  with  Willie.  At  the 
same  time  he  remembered  that,  after  all,  Willie 
had  missed  the  menagerie — as  if  that  were  an 
extenuating  circumstance! 

About  eight  o'clock,  his  bodily  misery  having 
abated  considerably,  he  endeavoured  to  settle 
his  mind  by  reading  a  back  number  of  the 
"  Easy  chair  Novels."  As  a  rule,  Mr.  Redhorn 
quite  lost  himself  in  such  pages,  but  on  this 
occasion  the  customary  charm  seemed  to  be 
lacking.  The  tormented  hero  and  distracted 


104    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

heroine  thrilled  him  not  at  all.  In  the  midst 
of  the  villain's  worst  threats  he  looked 
anxiously  at  the  door,  listening. 

He  was  afraid  Willie  might  come  after  all; 
and  he  was  unprepared  to  deal  with  the  young 
sinner.  He  thought  of  going  out  for  a  long 
walk,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  unpre- 
pared to  meet  his  jocular  neighbours. 

On  the  homeopathic  principle,  perhaps,  of 
applying  a  counter-irritant,  he  got  out  a  tat- 
tered ledger  and  pored  over  the  accounts  there- 
in. But  even  the  most  overdue  amongst  them 
failed  to  produce  sufficient  irritation,  and  he 
went  back  to  the  novelette. 

Five  minutes  later  he  flung  it  away,  with  the 
muttered  remark: 

"  Pah !  Thae  leddies  an'  gents  in  stories 
dinna  ken  what  real  meesery  means.  Oh, 
Wullie,  ye  scamp,  what  wey  could  ye  no'  dae 
yer  duty?  But  I'll  warrant  ye  I  dae  mines, 
when  I  gi'e  ye  the  kick  the  morn's  mornin' ! " 

Just  then  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door — a 
soft  apologetic  knock. 

"  Oh,  mercy !  "  breathed  the  painter,  "  is  that 
him?  .  .  .  I'll  pretend  I'm  no'  in."  Then  he 
remembered  that  the  lamp-light  would  be 
visible  under  the  door. 

The  knock  was  repeated,  a  little  louder. 

"  Be  a  man,  Joseph ! "  said  the  painter  to 
himself,  rising  as  though  rheumatism  had 
claimed  him  for  its  own. 

He  went  to  the  door  as  if  walking  on  eggs. 


HIS  YOUTH  105 

Without  opening  it,  he  coughed  and  put  the 
somewhat  unnecessary  question  in  a  hoarse 
whisper — 

"  Is  onybody  there  ?  " 

"  It's  me — Mistress  McWattie — Wullie's 
mither,"  came  the  reply.  "  I  wud  like  a  word 
wi'  ye,  Maister  Ridhorn !  " 

"Oh,  me!  This  is  awfu'!"  was  his 
inward  comment,  as  he  opened  the  door. 
"  Wull  ye  step  in,  Mistress  McWattie?"  he 
said  aloud. 

The  comely  widow  stepped  in  and,  without 
delay,  said — 

"  I'm  sorry  to  disturb  ye,  Maister  Ridhorn, 
but  Wullie  wudna  rest  till  I  gaed  wi'  his  mes- 
sage. He  had  an  accident." 

"  A  what?  "  exclaimed  Joseph. 

"  He  fell  frae  M'Fee's  cairt  on  the  road  hame 
frae  Ardmartin,  an' " 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Is  he  sair  hurtit?"  gasped  the 
painter,  turning  pale. 

"  Sair,  but  no'  serious,  I'm  thenkfu'  to  say," 
replied  the  widow.  "  He  twistit  his  ankle  an' 
cut  his  haun'  on  the  road,  an'  I'm  feart  he'll 
no'  be  fit  for  his  wark  the  morn " 

"But  is  he  sufferin'?" 

"  He's  easier  noo.  But  he's  vexed,  an'  so  am 
I,  that " 

"  Ye're  sure  it's  no'  serious?" 

"  Oh,  ay.  The  doctor  says  it'll  no'  be  lang 
till  he's  better.  Did  ye  gi'e  him  leave  to  gang 
to  Ardmartin,  Maister  Ridhorn?  He  said  nae- 


106    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

thing  aboot  that,  an'  I  hope  he  hasna  been 
daein'  onything  to  displease  ye." 

Mr.  Redhorn  stroked  his  long  nose  and 
smoothed  his  scanty  hair  ere  he  replied — 

"  I — I  made  nae  objections  to  him  gaun  to 
Ardmartin,  Mistress  McWattie.  An'  did  ye 
say  he  was  easier  noo?" 

"  Ay.  I'm  gled  he  wasna  daein'  onything 
wrang.  But  I  maun  gi'e  ye  his  message,"  said 
the  widow,  presenting  an  envelope.  "  He  wrote 
it  doon,  though  it  hurt  him  to  write.  He  said 
it  was  a  private  secret — I'm  sure  it's  the  first 
he  ever  kep'  frae  his  mither,"  she  added,  laugh- 
ing a  little  sadly.  "  But  ye've  been  a  great 
benefactor  to  ma  laddie,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

Joseph  took  the  envelope,  and,  going  close  to 
the  lamp,  opened  it. 

On  a  sheet  of  paper  was  written  in  a  school- 
boy hand  the  following: — 

' '  MR.  J.  REDHORN,  painter,  etc. ,  Fairport. 

"Sire, — I  am  very  sorry  I  went  to  Ardmartin  on  the  sly. 
There  was  no  mennagery.  I  fell  out  the  cart  and  hurt  my 
foot  and  hand.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for  doing  so. 
You  told  me  you  done  the  same  when  in  the  days  of  your 
youth.  Please  do  not  give  me  the  kick  as  your  master 
should  have  done.  With  kind  regards, 

"  Your  faithfull  apprentice, 

"  W.  M'WATTIE." 

Mr.  Redhorn  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  and 
cleared  his  throat.  He  realized  that  the  widow 
was  looking  at  him  curiously.  He  reddened. 

"  I'm  greatly  obleeged  to  ye,"  he  said.    "  This 


HIS  YOUTH  107 

letter  was  to  remind  me  o'  something  I  had 
forgot,  Mistress  McWattie.  Wullie's  a  rale 
clever  writer.  Is — is  there  onything  I  can  dae 
to  help  ye — an'  him?  He's  no'  to  fash  hisseP 
aboot  his  wark.  Tell  him  that." 

"  Thenk  ye,"  she  returned.  "  Ye're  rale  kind. 
I'll  gi'e  him  yer  message.  He  said  I  was  to 
ask  ye  for  an  answer." 

"  Weel,  that's  ma  answer — he's  no'  to  fash 

hissel'.  An' — an' — this "  Mr.  Redhorn 

took  from  the  table  the  fresh  pot  of  jam  and 
forced  it  into  the  widow's  protesting  hands — 
"  this  is  the  rest  o'  ma  answer." 

Presently  she  made  to  take  her  departure, 
saying— 

"  I  doot  ye're  ower  kind  to  Wullie,  Maister 
Ridhorn.  He's  a  wild  laddie,  an'  I'm  feart  he 
whiles  gi'es  ye  a  heap  o'  trouble." 

"Oh,"  said  Joseph  cheerfully,  "it's  no' 
worth  the  mention.  He's  young.  He's  aye 
learnin'.  In  the  days  o'  ma  youth  I  was 
jist  the  same — maybe  waur.  'Deed,  I  daur- 
say  I  was  a  lot  wilder.  Ay,  was  I !  I  was 
a  reg'lar  wee  rascal — in  fac',  I  was  a  fair 
demon ! " 

"  Aw,  I'm  sure  ye  wasna,  Maister  Ridhorn !  " 

"  Ah,  but  I  was !  I  was  jist  a — a  perfec' 
deevil! — excuse  me.  Thur  pancakes  ye  sent 
me  per  yer  son  was  deleecious — maist  sumptu- 
ous— entirely "  Here  Mr.  Redhorn  became 

confused. 

"  I'll   bid   ye  guid-nicht/'   said   the   comely 


108    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  PIASTER 

widow.  "  An'  thenk  ye  for  a'  yer  kindness  to 
Wullie." 

"  He's  welcome.  Could  I — could  I  get  seem' 
him  the  morn's  nicht,  think  ye?" 

"  He  wud  be  prood  to  see  ye.  Come  an'  tak' 
yer  tea  wi'  us." 

She  was  gone  ere  he  had  stammered  all  his 
thanks.  He  would  have  liked  to  escort  her, 
but  even  at  fifty  he  was  shy. 

He  closed  the  door  softly  and  went  back  to 
the  fire,  rubbing  his  hands  with  satisfaction. 

"  Puir  laddie !  "  he  murmured.  "  He's  been 
punished  enough.  I'm  gled  it's  no'  serious." 

He  took  out  Willie's  letter  and  re-read  it. 

"  In  the  days  o'  ma  youth,"  he  sighed  .  .  . 
then  laughed.  "  But  I'm  no'  a  Methuselah 
yet!" 


VIII 
HIS  NEW  YEAR  QUEST 

MR.  REDHORN  had  taken  the  journey 
to  Glasgow  with  a  single  purpose  in 
view — the  purchase  of  a  New  Year 
card.  It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Fairport 
was  so  benighted  that  such  an  article  could  not 
be  obtained  in  the  village.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  local  post-office  window  had  been  gay 
for  weeks  with  Christmas  and  New  Year  greet- 
ings— "  in  styles  and  at  prices  which  would  be 
found  to  compare  favourably  with  any  in  the 
city." 

But  Joseph  Redhorn  shrank  from  entering 
the  post-office  for  anything  more  sentimental 
than  postage  stamps  and  stationery.  And  he 
wanted  to  send  a  card  for  the  New  Year  to  the 
comely  widow,  Mrs.  McWattie.  He  was  old- 
fashioned  enough  to  reserve  his  good  wishes 
and  congratulations  for  the  first  of  January. 

"  I  wudna  think  twice  aboot  gaun  in,  if  it 
was  a  comic  caird  I  was  seekin',"  he  reflected. 
"  But  it's  no'  a  comic  caird  I'm  wantin',  an'  I 
couldna  endure  Peter's  scrutiny.  Peter  wud 
mak'  a  blackamoor  rid  i'  the  face  jist  wi'  lookin' 
at  him." 

109 


110    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

So  about  three  o'clock  on  a  wet  afternoon, 
Mr.  Redhorn  stood  before  a  large  window  in 
Argyle  Street,  Glasgow,  surveying  the  cards 
which  remained  hanging  within,  though  Christ- 
mas Day  was  past. 

"  It's  a  mercy  it's  wat,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  If  it  had  been  fine,  some  o'  the  Fairport  folk 
wud  ha'e  been  in  Glesca  for  certain,  an'  I  wud 
ha'e  got  detectit  afore  noo.  Tits ! "  he  ex- 
claimed a  little  irritably,  as  the  umbrella  of  a 
passerby  tipped  his  hat  over  his  nose.  "  I  wish 
I  had  pit  on  ma  saft  bunnet.  This  pot  hat's  a 
perfec'  fiasco."  With  both  hands  he  drew  it 
down  till  his  head  ached,  and  resumed  his 
contemplation  of  the  cards. 

"  It's  no'  jist  as  easy  as  I  thocht  it  wud  be," 
he  told  himself  at  the  end  of  twenty  minutes. 
"  The  cairds  is  richt  enough,  but  nane  o'  the 
remarks  is  exac'ly  suitable.  A  Happy  New 
Year  is  correc',  but  it's  no'  oreeginal.  A  Bright 
an'  Prosperous  New  Tear  is  maybe  mair 
oreeginal,  but  it  doesna  soun'  nateral.  A  Quid 
New  Tear  is  honest,  but  it's  kin'  o'  plain.  For 
Auld  Lang  Syne  is  a  nice  motto,  but  it's  a  wee 
thing  conveevial  for  ma  purpose.  A  New  Tear 
Greetin' — weel,  there's  mair  weys  o'  greetin' 
nor  the  yin,  an'  I  wudna  like  ma  meanin'  to  be 
disconstrued." 

Mr.  Redhorn  stroked  his  nose  and  sighed. 

"  The  warst  o'  poetry  is  that  it  whiles  hasna 
suffeecient  meanin',  an'  whiles  has  ower 


HIS  NEW  YEAR  QUEST          111 

muckle."    He  eyed  a  card  whereon  were  printed 
the  following  lines  in  purple  and  gold— 

"  Old  friends  are  best,  and  so  I  send 
An  old  friend's  wish  to  you,  old  friend. 
May  choicest  blessings  from  above 
Be  yours,  with  human  joy  and  love  ! " 

"  It's  no'  bad,  but  it's  no'  jist  suitable. 
She's  no'  that  auld,  an'  neither  am  I.  ... 
What  does  thon  yin  say  ?  "  He  strained  his 
eyes  and  read— 

"  May  New  Year's  Day  be  spent  in  fun 
With  turkey,  pies,  and  currant  bun !  " 

"  Oh,  that's  no'  the  thing  ava' !  What's  the 
use  o'  spendin'  yin  day  in  fun,  when  it  means 
that  ye'll  spend  maybe  three  days  in  meesery, 
if  no'  acute  agony?  '  Turkey,  pies,  an'  currant 
bun ! '  Criftens !  What  a  conglomeration  to 
mak'  a  poem  aboot!  A  body  wud  think  tur- 
keys was  to  be  had  for  the  askin'.  But  I  sup- 
pose that  caird  is  intendit  for  gentry.  .  .  . 
Thonder  anither.  Aw,  I  canna  mak'  it  oot. 
The  writin's  ower  fancy — it's  a'  curly-wurlies 
an'  flourishes.  Here  anither." — 

"  With  loving  and  hearty 
Wishes  for  your  happiness 
And  prosperity  in 
The  Coming  year." 

Mr.  Redhorn  read  the  lines  three  times  very 
carefully.  "  Aw,  that's  no'  a  nice  like  thing 
to  dae — to  prent  a  thing  to  look  like  poetry, 


112    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

when  it's  jist  or'nar'  readin'.  That's  what  I 
ca'  a  rank  deception." 

He  was  turning  to  another  card,  when  a  mes- 
sage boy  bearing  a  heavy  basket  passed.  The 
corner  of  the  basket  caught  him  in  the  ribs 
and  caused  him  to  stagger  and  gasp. 

"  Can  ye  no'  look  whaur  ye're  gaun,  laddie?  " 
said  Mr.  Redhorn  wrathfully. 

"  Ye  wis  blockin'  the  pavement,"  retorted  the 
boy  cheekily. 

"I  was  what?"  cried  the  painter,  stepping 
forward. 

"Och,  awa'  hame  an'  eat  turnips!"  With 
these  words,  which  were  accompanied  by  a 
most  impudent  grin,  the  boy  disappeared  in  the 
crowd,  leaving  Mr.  Redhorn  paralyzed  with 
indignation. 

"  Eat  turnips ! "  he  muttered  at  last. 
"What -" 

A  young  man  in  a  hurry  ran  into  him, 
apologized  briefly,  and  fled.  Mr.  Redhorn  stag- 
gered lightly  against  an  elderly  woman, 
stepped  back,  and  collided  rather  heavily  with 
an  old  gentleman. 

"  I  beg  yer 

"  Blundering  idiot !  "  spluttered  the  old  gen- 
tleman, giving  the  painter  a  violent  push. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  furious,  reeled  into  the  door 
of  the  shop  before  whose  window  he  had  stood 
so  long. 

"  Come  away,  now.  Out  of  this !  "  cried  the 
shopkeeper. 


HIS  NEW  YEAR  QUEST          113 

Regaining  his  balance,  Joseph  stared. 

"  Out  of  this ! "  cried  the  shopkeeper  again. 

"What?" 

"  What  do  you  want  ? "  the  shopkeeper 
asked  in  a  milder  tone.  "  I  see  you're  all 
right,  but  from  the  way  you  came  in  I  thought 
you  were "  He  paused  and  smiled  sug- 
gestively. 

Mr.  Redhorn  did  not,  however,  respond  to 
the  smile.  Drawing  himself  up,  he  glared 
across  the  counter,  and  in  a  loud,  though  high 
and  quavering  voice,  said  haughtily — 

"  I  was  intendin'  to  buy  a  New  Year  caird  aff 
ye,  but  noo  that  I've  inspec'it  them,  I  wudna 
tak'  yin  o'  yer  uglies  in  a  gift.  Keep  them  till 
February,  an'  they'll  dae  fine  for  mock  valen- 
teens." 

And  feeling  very  hot,  but  not  altogether  un- 
happy, he  quitted  the  shop. 

He  found  another  shop,  and  decided  to  enter 
without  viewing  the  stock  of  cards  in  the 
window. 

A  bright-eyed  young  woman  hastened  to  wait 
upon  him. 

"  I  was  wantin'  a  New  Year  caird,"  he  said, 
and  suddenly  felt  uncomfortable.  The  young 
woman's  eyes  were  so  bright  that  she  seemed 
to  be  inwardly  amused. 

"What  kind  of  card  would  you  like?"  she 
inquired  pleasantly. 

"  Weel,"  said  Joseph  slowly,  "  I've  no'  jist 


114    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

decidet.  .  .  .  Er — What  kin'  o'  cairds  ha'e 
ye  got  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  sudden  and  happy 
inspiration. 

The  young  woman  indicated  several  trays 
containing  cards  at  different  prices,  and  in- 
vited Mr.  Redhorn  to  make  his  choice.  Mr. 
Redhorn,  with  fingers  that  trembled,  began  to 
turn  over  the  cards.  The  young  woman  as- 
sisted him,  now  and  then  holding  up  a  card  for 
his  inspection.  He  wished  that  a  customer 
would  come  in  to  occupy  the  young  woman's 
attention  till  he  made  his  selection.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  that  he  would  have  to  exhibit 
his  choice  to  her  in  the  long  run.  Already  he 
felt  that  she  had  guessed  his  guilty  secret.  She 
would  persist  in  holding  up  cards  with  some- 
thing about  "  love  "  on  them.  He  blushed  till 
his  collar  began  to  feel  sticky  at  the  back. 

"  This  is  a  very  pretty  one — threepence," 
said  the  young  woman.  "  It's  a  most  artistic 
card." 

Joseph  was  compelled  to  look  at  it.  It  was 
really  a  dainty  thing,  and  inside  the  following 
couplet  was  clearly  printed — 

"  The  New  Year  comes  !    I  think  of  thee, 
And  pray  that  you  may  think  of  me  !  " 

"  There  isn't  a  prettier  card  in  the  box,"  said 
the  young  woman. 

"  Thenk  ye ;  but  I  think  I'll  ha'e  this  yin," 
said  the  painter  hoarsely.  "  What's  the 
price?" 


HIS  NEW  YEAR  QUEST          115 

"  A  penny."    She  looked  disappointed. 

Joseph  produced  the  coin.  "  Never  heed 
paper,"  he  said,  and  stuffing  the  hideous 
"  comic  "  picture  of  a  fat  pig  into  his  pocket, 
he  rushed  from  the  shop. 

"  I've  pit  her  aff  the  scent  onywey,"  he  re- 
flected as  he  sought  another  shop.  "  I  wudna 
wonder  if  the  lass  kent  me  by  sicht.  There's 
that  mony  picnics  to  Fairport  in  the  simmer." 

In  the  third  shop  he  purchased  a  lead  pencil 
from  a  youth  near  the  door  rather  than  risk 
being  attended  to  by  a  girl  further  along  the 
counter. 

"  I'll  ha'e  a  keek  in  first,"  he  said  to  himself 
on  reaching  a  fourth  shop. 

The  sight  of  an  elderly  and  severe-looking 
lady  encouraged  him,  and  he  entered. 

"  I  was  wantin'  a  New  Year  caird,"  he  said, 
and  smiled  broadly  and  foolishly  from  sheer 
nervousness. 

"  These  are  a  penny  each,"  said  the  lady 
solemnly,  laying  a  tray  of  "  comics "  before 
him. 

"  Aw !  "  said  Mr.  Redhorn  helplessly. 

"  Are  these  not  what  you  want?  "  The  lady's 
voice  was  almost  threatening. 

"Ay,  this'll  dae  fine."  The  painter  chose  a 
grotesque  representation  of  a  nigger  in  a  snow- 
storm, paid  his  penny,  and  hurried  away. 

"  I'll  gi'e  the  comics  to  Wullie,"  he  told  him- 
self, as  he  walked  rapidly  over  the  greasy  pave- 


116    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

ments  in  the  dismal  drizzle.  "  I  never  thocht  I 
wud  ha'e  sic'  a  deeficulty  in  buyin'  a  roman- 
tic caird.  I  doot  I'm  no'  brazen-faced  enough 
for  the  operation.  But  I'll  get  the  correc'  caird 
yet!" 

Presently  he  came  to  a  shop  whose  pro- 
prietor called  himself  a  newsagent,  stationer, 
and  tobacconist.  At  the  moment  of  Joseph's 
entry  the  proprietor  was  a  tobacconist — at  any 
rate,  he  was  smoking  a  cigarette  and  talking 
to  another  man  about  a  horse. 

He  gave  Mr.  Redhorn  an  inquiring  glance. 

"  I  was  wantin'  a  New  Year  caird,"  said 
Joseph,  using  the  now  familiar  formula. 

"  Choose  your  pick,"  returned  the  proprietor, 
pointing  to  a  revolving  holder.  He  then  re- 
sumed his  conversation  about  the  horse. 

Mr.  Redhorn  glanced  at  his  watch.  He 
would  have  to  make  haste  to  choose,  if  he 
wanted  to  catch  his  train. 

A  column  of  post-card  actresses  smiled  at 
him,  so  he  made  the  holder  revolve ;  whereupon 
a  column  of  ministers  looked  at  him,  he  fancied, 
reprovingly ;  then  more  actresses. 

"  Whit  kin'  o'  gemm  is  this  ? "  he  mut- 
tered crossly,  and  turned  the  holder  rather 
harshly. 

A  sheaf  of  cards  fell  at  his  feet. 

"  Canny,  man ! "  remarked  the  proprietor. 

Mr.  Redhorn  restrained  himself,  picked  up 
the  cards  and  returned  them  to  their  niches. 

"  Keep    on    revolving,"    observed    the    pro- 


HIS  NEW  YEAR  QUEST          117 

prietor;  "  it'll  not  get  giddy."  And  he  went  on 
chatting  with  his  friend. 

Joseph  was  rewarded  at  last.  He  came  upon 
some  quite  attractive  cards. 

"  I  best  no'  tak'  yin  wi'  poetry,"  he  thought. 
"  I've  nae  time  to  analyze  it." 

And  he  fixed  on  a  card  tied  with  pale  blue 
ribbon. 

"  I'll  tak'  this  yin." 

"  Fourpence.  It's  a  dear  card,  but  it's 
printed  in  real  gold  on  genuine  ivory.  Here's 
an  envelope."  The  proprietor  took  Mr.  Red- 
horn's  sixpence,  handed  him  twopence,  and  re- 
turned to  talking  about  the  horse. 

Mr.  Redhorn  ran  for  his  train,  and  caught  it 
with  exactly  twelve  minutes  to  spare.  There 
were  few  travellers  that  afternoon. 

Shortly  after  the  train  had  started  he  took 
from  his  breast  pocket  the  envelope  containing 
the  card. 

He  extracted  the  card.  He  smiled  with 
gentle  satisfaction. 

"  I  never  seen  a  bonnier  New  Year  caird," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  I  wudna  say  but  what 
she'll  like  it.  I  hope  she'll  no'  tell  Wullie, 
though.  .  .  .  Ay,  it's  a  rale  pretty  pictur  on 
the  ootside.  An'  it's  maybe  as  weel  no'  to  ha'e 
ower  muckle  prentin'  in  the  inside.  Criftens! 
I've  never  lookit  at  the  inside." 

He  opened  the  card,  and  read 

A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS. 


IX 
HIS  SPECTACLES 

O,  Joseph,"  said  the  Kinlochan  doctor, 
smiling,   "  it   isn't   your  old   enemy, 
dyspepsia.     You  may  take  my  word 
for  that." 

"  I'm  relieved  to  hear  ye  say  it,  Doctor,"  the 
painter  returned.  "  It  wud  ha'e  been  a  sair 
disapp'intment  to  be  informed  I  had  gotten 
dyspepsia  again,  efter  near  twa  month  o'  im- 
punity frae  the  same,  no'  to  mention  twinty- 
odd  bottles  o'  meddicine  at  twa  shillin's  the 
bottle.  Ay,  I'm  greatly  relieved,  but — but,  if 
ye  please,  what's  gi'ein'  me  that  nesty  wee  pain 
in  ma  heid?  I  hope  it's  no'  ony  disorder  o'  ma 
— ma  brain.  That  wud  be  waur  nor  ma  auld 
affliction." 

"  Oh,  your  brain's  all  right.  But  you've  been 
straining  your  eyes.  I'll  give  you  a  note  to  a 
friend  of  mine — a  specialist — in  Glasgow,  and 
he  will  test  your  sight  and  give  you  a  prescrip- 
tion for  glasses  suitable  to  your  case."  The 
doctor  sat  down  at  his  table  and  picked  up  a 
pen. 

"  Glesses ! "  gasped  Mr.  Redhorn,  grabbing 
the  back  of  a  chair. 

118 


HIS  SPECTACLES  119 

"  Or  spectacles,  if  you  prefer  them.  Prob- 
ably spectacles  would  be  more  convenient  for 
your  work." 

"  Oh,  Doctor,  am  I  gaun  blin'  ?  " 

The  doctor  looked  up  and  laughed  reassur- 
ingly. "  Nonsense,  man !  Your  eyes  will  serve 
you  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  but  they  require 
a  little  protection  and  assistance,  as  do  the 
eyes  of  thousands  of  younger  men  than  you. 
How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Fifty-twa,  accordin'  to  the  certeeficate  o' 
ma  birth,  whereon  it  is  statit  that  Joseph  Rid- 
horn " 

"  All  right,  Joseph.  Your  eyes  will  serve 
you  till  you're  a  hundred.  Don't  worry  about 
them."  He  proceeded  to  write  the  note,  and 
Mr.  Kedhorn  watched  him,  keeping  silence  with 
difficulty. 

"  There,"  said  the  doctor,  handing  him  the 
note  in  an  addressed  envelope.  "  Doctor  Evans 
will  soon  put  you  right,  and  I've  no  doubt,  if 
you  ask  him,  he'll  show  you  a  picture  which 
will  explain  why  you  require  spectacles,  and 
what  a  simple  matter  it  is  after  all." 

"Thenk  ye,  thenk  ye,  Doctor,"  replied  the 
painter,  taking  the  letter  gingerly.  "  Ye're 
vera  kind,  an'  I'm  greatly  obleeged  to  ye.  But 
— but  could  ye  no'  gi'e  me  a  bottle  for  ma 
sicht?" 

The  doctor  checked  a  laugh.  "  There  are 
some  cures  that  cannot  be  put  in  bottles, 
Joseph,"  he  said  gravely. 


120    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"Or  peells?"  Mr.  Redhorn  asked,  clinging 
to  a  straw.  "  I'm  a  perfec'  marvel  for  takiu' 
meddicine  in  ony  shape  or  form,  an'  in  ony 
quantity.  Ye  can  rest  assured  that  I'll  tak' 
onything  ye  like  to  mix,  wi'  the  utmaist  regu- 
larity, though  the  taste  wud  baffle  description. 
Please,  Doctor " 

"  My  good  man,  be  reasonable.  Do  you  think 
that,  if  I  could  help  you,  I  would  send  you  to 
another  doctor?  And  I  have  already  given 
you  my  word  that  your  sight  will  remain  first- 
rate,  if  you  only  give  it  a  little  assistance  and 
protection.  Don't  you  believe  me?  " 

"Ay,  Doctor.  It's  no'  that  I'm  feared  o' 
lossin'  ma  sicht,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn  in  deep 
dejection.  "  It's "  He  paused. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Weel,  Doctor,"  the  painter  stammered, 
"  did  ye — did  ye  ever  see  a  penter  wi'  specs  ?  " 

"  I  can't  remember  that  I  have,"  the  doctor 
replied.  "  But  no  doubt,  many  painters  use 
them." 

"I  never  seen  a  penter  wi'  specs.  Never!" 
said  Mr.  Redhorn  dismally.  "  In  ma  opeenion 
a  penter  wi'  specs  wud  be  a — a — monstrosity." 

"  Am  I  a  monstrosity  ?  "  asked  the  doctor, 
smiling  through  his  glasses. 

"  You're  no'  a  penter,  if  ye'll  excuse  me  savin' 
it.  An'  I'm  tellin'  ye  that  Joseph  Ridhorn  wi' 
specs'll  be  the  laughin'  stock  ol  Fairport." 

"  Nonsense,  Joseph !  Fairport  will  get  used 
to  the  spectacles  as  soon  as  you  will — which 


HIS  SPECTACLES  121 

will  be  in  less  than  no  time.  You  can't  sacri- 
fice your  sight  to  a  little  thing  like  that. 
Really,"  added  the  doctor  chaffingly,  "  I  had  no 
idea  you  were  so  conceited,  Joseph." 

"  It's  no'  consate,  Doctor,"  the  painter  dully 
replied.  "  But  I've  aye  had  an  objection  to 
bein'  unique  in  ony  wey.  I  never  set  up  to  be 
an  Adonis  ony  mair  nor  a — a  gladiator,  for 
example;  but  I've  an  ambeetion  to  get  through 
this  warld  wi'oot  attractin'  public  attention  by 
or'nar'.  Hooever,"  he  went  on,  "  if  Providence 
has  decreed  that  Joseph  Ridhorn  is  to  dae  the 
rest  of  his  pentin',  paper-hangin',  an'  decoratin' 
wi'  specs  on  his  nose,  there's  nae  use  makin'  ony 
ootcry.  I'll  gang  to  Glesca  the  morn's  mornin', 
Doctor,  an'  if  ye  hear  o'  a  riot  in  Fairport  on 
ma  return,  ye'll  ken  the  reason.  Guid-day  to 
ye,  an'  thenk  ye  kindly  for  yer  advice  an'  this 
letter." 

"  Good-bye,  Joseph,  and  I  expect  to  hear  soon 
that  you  have  found  the  spectacles  a  great 
help." 

"  Weel,  weel,  I  hope  they'll  prove  a  blessin' 
in  disguise,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  not  very  hope- 
fully, and,  putting  his  hat  on  his  sparsely  cov- 
ered head,  he  took  his  departure. 

During  the  four-mile  walk  from  Kinlochan 
to  Fairport  he  brooded  upon  the  subject,  and 
so  increased  his  depression.  He  was  a  modest, 
bashful  creature,  and  had  an  intense  horror 
of  ridicule.  The  Fairport  folk,  especially  the 
youngsters,  knew  his  weakness,  and  took  fre- 


122    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

quent  and  full  advantage  of  it.  Joseph  prayed 
that  the  oculist  would  prescribe  nothing  worse 
than  clear  spectacles.  "  Guid  kens  what  I'll 
dae  if  I've  got  to  weer  bew  yins  or  the  kind  like 
wee  meat-safes." 

He  reached  home  in  a  nervous  condition,  and 
made  a  poor  evening  meal,  forgetting  for  the 
first  time  in  eighteen  months  to  take  his  dose 
of  physic. 

About  eight  o'clock  Willie  McWattie  arrived. 

"  Weel,  what  is't  ye  want,  Wullie?  "  he  asked 
a  trifle  impatiently. 

Willie  looked  hurt.  "  Ye  said  I  was  to  come 
the  nicht,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

"Did  I?    Weel " 

"  I  was  to  get  a  lesson  at  the  grainin'." 

"  'Deed,  so  ye  was ! "  cried  the  painter,  self- 
reproachful.  "  It  was  stupit  o'  me  to  forget, 
laddie,  but  I  didna  mean  it.  Rin  roon'  to  the 
shed — here  the  key — an'  bring  the  board  an'  the 
pots  an'  the  rags  that  ye'll  see  on  the  shelf 
ablow  the  winda.  I  pit  them  there  to  be  ready 
for  ye,  afore  I  gaed  to  Kinlochan  the  day. 
Canny  wi'  the  wee  pot  o'  vernish — it's  near  the 
brim.  An'  I'll  sune  gi'e  ye  a  lesson." 

Willie  sped  on  his  errand,  and  returned  with 
the  articles  required. 

"  It  wud  ha'e  been  better  in  daylicht,"  Mr. 
Redhorn  observed  as  he  lit  the  lamp.  "  But 
we  canna  ha'e  everything.  Can  we,  Wullie?  " 

"  Na,"  said  Willie  carelessly. 

"  It's  a  peety  when  man  has  got  to  use  the 


HIS  SPECTACLES  123 

artifeecial  for  want  o'  the  nateral.  Eh,  Wul- 
lie?  " 

"  Ay,"  replied  the  boy  absent-mindedly,  his 
eyes  on  the  painted  board. 

Mr.  Redhorn  sighed,  picked  up  a  brush,  and 
proceeded  with  the  lesson. 

"  Weel,  I  think  ye've  got  a  bit  notion  o'  the 
art  o'  grainin',  Wullie,"  said  the  painter,  an 
hour  later.  "  I'll  gi'e  ye  anither  lesson  some 
ither  nicht,  an'  I'll  get  ye  a  board  to  practise 
on.  Practice  mak's  perfec'!  Mind  that,  Wul- 
lie." 

"  Did  you  practise  a  lot  when  ye  was  young, 
Maister  Ridhorn?  " 

"  I  did  that,  Wullie." 

"  An'  hoo  lang  did  it  tak'  ye  to  get  perfec'  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  lang  time,  laddie,  a  lang,  lang  time." 

"A  month,  Maister  Ridhorn?" 

"A  month!    Criftens!    A  month!" 

"Sax  month?" 

"  Years,  Wullie,  years  an'  years ! "  cried  the 
painter. 

Willie  looked  disappointed  and  picked  up  his 
cap.  "  It's  time  I  was  gaun  hame,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Redhorn  suddenly  departed  from  his  in- 
tention of  giving  his  apprentice  a  little  lecture 
on  "  Practice  and  Perfection." 

"  Wullie,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  did  ye  ever  see 
a  penter  pentin'  wi'  specs  on  ?  " 

For  a  moment  the  boy  gaped  with  astonish- 
ment. Then  he  shook  his  head,  and  said :  "  I 


never  seen  ony  penter  but  yersel',  Maister  Kid- 
horn." 

"  Hoo  dae  ye  think  a  penter  wud  luk  wi' 
specs  on,  Wullie?" 

"  Kin'  o'  comic-like,"  replied  Willie,  after  a 
glance  at  his  master. 

Mr.  Redhorn  turned  away  to  hide  his  scarlet 
countenance. 

"Ye  best  gang  hame  noo,  Wullie,"  he  said, 
controlling  his  voice.  "  Ye  needna  come  to  yer 
wark  the  morn's  mornin',  for  I'll  no'  be  here. 
I — I'm  gaun  to  the  toon  to — to  become  kin'  o' 
comic-like." 

The  cap  slipped  from  the  boy's  fingers. 

"  Ye're  gaun  to  get  specs ! "  he  exclaimed, 
making  for  the  door.  But  he  took  courage  and 
halted  halfway.  "  I — I  didna  mean  that  you 
wud  be — what  I  said,"  he  whispered.  "  As  sure 
as  onything,  I  didna,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

"  I  accep'  yer  apology,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn 
with  melancholy  dignity,  touched  by  his  ap- 
prentice's evidently  sincere  regret.  Whatever 
the  boy's  faults  were,  his  master  had  not  found 
disloyalty  one  of  them. 

"  Plenty  folk  weers  specs,"  remarked  Willie, 
regaining  confidence.  "  It's  jist  the  young  yins 
that  looks  comic-like." 

"  I'm  no'  exactly  a  Methuselah,  Wullie,"  the 
painter  returned  with  a  wan  smile. 

Willie  missed  the  point  but  caught  the  smile, 
such  as  it  was.  "  Ye'll  be  able  to  see  furder  wi' 
specs,"  he  said  cheerfully. 


HIS  SPECTACLES  125 

Mr.  Redhorn  sighed.  "  I  doot  I'll  create  a 
sensation  in  Fairport,"  he  muttered. 

"  Eh?  "  said  Willie,  the  remark  escaping  him. 

"  Aw,  naething,  laddie.  Awa'  hame  wi'  ye. 
Bide  a  meenute !  Here  yer  wages.  I  forgot  the 
morn  was  Seturday.  Ye'll  no'  be  late  on  Mon- 
day mornin'  ?  " 

"  Nae  fears !  Thenk  ye,"  said  Willie,  taking 
the  silver.  "  But — but  ye've  gi'ed  me  a  shillin' 
ower  mony." 

"  That's  a  rise,  Wullie,"  said  the  painter 
kindly.  "  Ye  can  tell  yer  mither  I'm  pleased 
wi'  ye." 

Willie  knew  very  well  that  he  did  not  deserve 
any  advance  in  his  wages,  but  that  knowledge 
did  not  detract  from  his  gratitude,  and  he  men- 
tally registered  a  vow  to  do  better  in  future. 
Had  he  registered  all  vows  of  that  nature  for 
the  last  twelve  months  in  a  book,  it  would 
have  shown  a  startling  number  of  entries,  but 
after  all,  the  ordinary  boy's  good  intentions 
should  be  regarded  as  stepping  rather  than 
paving  stones. 

"  I  hope  yer  mither's  weel,"  said  Mr.  Red- 
horn,  "  an'  no'  workin'  ower  hard.  Help  her  a' 
ye  can,  Wullie.  The  only  son  o'  a  weeda  has 
great  responsibeelities,  but  his  reward'll  be  a' 
the  greater.  Guid-nicht,  Wullie,  an'  dinna  for- 
get a'  yer  lesson  at  grainin'." 

It  was  a  dirty  evening.  A  heavy  sea  rolled 
up  the  loch,  and  the  south  wind  carried  lash- 


126    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

ing  squalls  of  rain.  In  the  dusk  the  steamer 
had  some  difficulty  in  taking  the  pier. 

Mr.  Redhorn  stood  in  the  lee  of  the  deck- 
house, and  watched  the  shore  with  mis- 
givings. Few  people  were  out  of  doors, 
but  to  the  nervous  painter  the  few  seemed 
legion. 

"  What  a  day !  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  Sea- 
eeeck  in  the  mornin'.  Then  gettin'  ma  sicht 
testit  wi'  a  maygic  lantern  an'  ither  fearsome 
contrivances — but  he  was  a  kind  man,  a'  the 
same.  Then  gettin'  ma  specs  fittit  on  by  an 
impiddent  young  chap  that  stared  at  ma  nose 
as  if  it  was  a  curiosity,  an'  tell't  me  I  was 
extremely  difficult  for  to  fit.  Then  eatin'  a 
plate  o'  mince — gey  tasty,  I  admit,  but  no'  the 
thing  for  me  in  ma  disturbed  condeetion.  Then 
lossin'  ma  train,  an'  waitin'  three  'oors  for  the 
next.  Then  an  'oor  of  meesery  on  the  boat.  An' 
noo — noo  to  appear  afore  the  public  of  Fairport 
as  a  monstrosity,  a  comicality,  a  penter  wi' 
specs  on  his  nose ! "  Mr.  Redhorn  groaned. 
"  But  I'm  no'  gaun  to  shrink  frae  the  ordeal. 
An'  the  suner  it's  ower  the  better.  Here 
goes ! " 

From  an  innner  pocket  he  produced  a  leather 
case,  from  which,  with  chilled  fingers,  he  ex- 
tracted the  new  spectacles. 

"  Nesty  dangerous  things !  "  he  muttered,  as 
he  adjusted  them.  "  I  near  pit  the  spoke  in 
ma  e'e  instead  o'  ower  ma  ear.  Bless  me, 
they're  blin'  wi'  the  rain  a'ready ! "  He  took 


HIS  SPECTACLES  127 

them  off  and  wiped  them;  replaced  them,  and 
pulled  his  hat  over  his  brows,  bending  his  head, 
to  protect  the  glasses  from  the  rain. 

The  steamer  was  warped  to  the  pier  at  last, 
and  rose  and  fell  on  the  heavy  swell.  The  gang- 
way was  put  out  from  the  paddlebox,  and  the 
purser  shouted :  "  All  for  Fairport,  quickly, 
please." 

To  his  horror  Mr.  Redhorn  realized  that  he 
was  the  sole  passenger  for  Fairport.  With  a 
supreme  effort  of  will  he  prevented  his  hand 
from  tearing  off  the  spectacles.  He  stumbled 
up  the  steps  of  the  gangway,  and  handed  the 
purser  his  spectacle  case. 

"  Ticket,  ticket ! "  cried  the  official  impa- 
tiently, and  Mr.  Redhorn,  with  incoherent 
apologies,  made  the  necessary  exchange. 

"  Noo  for  the  jeers  o'  the  populace,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself,  dashing  past  the  men  holding 
the  pier  end  of  the  gangway. 

The  piermaster,  along  with  several  villagers, 
awaited  him  at  the  covered  exit. 

Joseph  Redhorn's  knees  almost  failed  him. 
There  was  yet  time  to  remove  the  spectacles, 
but  he  clenched  his  hands  till  the  case  in  one 
of  them  cracked,  and  went  forward,  his  head 
held  low  against  a  rain  squall. 

Suddenly  the  piermaster's  lantern  shone  in 
his  face. 

"Weel,  I'm  blest!"  exclaimed  the  pier- 
master,  "if  I  didna  think  ye  was  Professor 
Fisken  that  was  here  in  the  summer.  Look  at 


128    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

him,  lads,"  he  added  to  the  villagers.  "  Is  he 
no'  rale  like  the  Professor?  " 

"  The  vera  image !  " 

"Dod,  it's  extr'ornar' !  " 

"  I  never  seen  onything  like  it !  " 

"  He  micht  be  the  Professor's  twin-brither !  " 

Such  were  the  replies  to  the  piermas- 
ter's  query.  Nobody  laughed.  Nobody  even 
smiled. 

"  I  suppose  it's  ma  specs,"  said  Joseph,  very 
bashfully. 

"  Nae  doot,"  said  the  piermaster.  "  But  I 
didna  ken  ye  needit  specs,  Joseph.  I  hope 
there's  naething  serious  wrang  wi'  yer  sicht, 
man." 

The  others  expressed  similar  sympathetic 
aspirations. 

Mr.  Redhorn,  almost  overcome  by  his  kindly 
reception,  repeated,  more  or  less  correctly,  the 
great  oculist's  diagnosis,  and  assured  his 
neighbours  that,  with  the  aid  of  the  spectacles, 
his  eyes  were  good  for  ever. 

Whereupon  his  neighbours  congratulated 
him. 

"  We'll  ha'e  to  ca'  ye  l  Professor,'  Joseph," 
said  the  piermaster  with  pleasant  jocularity. 
"  Ye  sud  be  rale  prood  to  be  the  vera  image  o' 
yin  o'  the  greatest  scientists  in  a'  the  warld. 
But  ye'll  be  wantin'  hame.  Ye're  drookit. 
Guid-nicht,  Professor,  an'  I'm  pleased  to  hear 
it's  naething  serious." 

Mr.  Redhorn  paid  his  penny  and  went  his 


HIS  SPECTACLES  129 

way,  followed  by  good-natured  cries  of  "  Guid- 
nicht,  Professor."  And  he  went  with  his  head 
high  and  a  smile  on  his  undistinguished  coun- 
tenance. 

Professor  Fisken,  the  renowned  electrician! 
The  summer  visitor  who  had  won  the  hearts  of 
all  Fairport  with  his  homely  ways  and  unas- 
suming generosity!  If  such  a  man  wore  spec- 
tacles, who  was  Joseph  Redhorn  that  he  should 
scorn  them? 

On  reaching  his  lonely  dwelling  the  painter 
lit  the  lamp  and  rushed  to  the  tiny  mirror  be- 
fore which  he  shaved  his  thin  cheeks  and 
brushed  his  scanty  hair. 

Yes!  There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  The 
likeness  was  quite  remarkable.  Mr.  Redhorn 
could  not  sing,  but  he  whistled  as  he  stirred 
the  fire  and  put  the  kettle  on. 

Next  day  being  Sunday  he  went  to  church, 
not  so  confident  until  neighbours  began  to 
congratulate  him  on  his  resemblance  to  the 
great  man  and  on  the  fact  that  his  eye-trouble 
was  not  serious. 

"  Professor  Ridhorn "  became  forthwith  a 
household  word  in  Fairport,  and  the  painter 
neither  made  nor  felt  the  slightest  objection. 
And  when,  during  the  first  few  days,  the  chil- 
dren were  crazy  to  acquire  the  cast-off  wires 
of  aerated-water  bottles,  in  order  that  with 
"  specs  "  constructed  from  the  same  they  might 
play  at  being  "  Professor  Ridhorn,"  the  painter 


130    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

took  it  all  in  good  part  and  patted  each  little 
head  while  he  held  his  own  a  trifle  higher. 

"  I  like  ye  best  in  specs,  Maister  Ridhorn," 
said  Willie  shyly,  as  he  and  his  master  set  out 
to  a  job  on  the  Monday. 

"What  wey  that,  Wullie?"  inquired  his 
master,  also  rather  shyly. 

"  They  gar  ye  look  awfu'  kind,"  said  Willie. 
"Jist  as  kind  as  ye  are,"  he  added  with  an 
effort. 

Willie  may  have  been  unoriginal,  but  he  was 
not  insincere,  when  he  quoted  the  words  that 
he  had  heard  his  mother  say  the  previous  after- 
noon. 


HIS  NEIGHBOURS'  DEEDS  OP 
KINDNESS 

MB.  JOHN  GORKIE  sat  up  in  his  chair 
and  gaped  at  his  visitor,  Mr.  Bob 
Smilie,  the  laziest  jobbing  gardener  in 
Fairport. 

"  Ye're  tryin'  to  cod  me,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  Ten  pound !  I  dinna  believe  it." 

"  It's  the  solemn  truth,"  returned  the  visitor, 
who  five  minutes  ago  had  experienced  some 
difficulty  in  gaining  admittance  to  the  untidy 
abode  of  his  bachelor  acquaintance.  We  do 
not  say  "  friend,"  because  Messrs.  Gorrie  and 
Smilie  were  not  the  sort  of  men  who  deal  much 
in  friendship. 

"  It's  the  solemn  truth,"  the  latter  repeated. 
"  As  sune  as  the  concert  was  by,  the  meenister 
got  up  and  says,  says  he :  'Ma  dear  f  reen's,  I've 
a  splendit  announcement  to  announce  to  ye  a' 
wi'  her  leddyship's  kind  permeesion.  Ye  a'  ken 
what  an  interest  Her  leddyship  tak's  in 
Fairport,  an'  hoo  gled  she  is  to  see  Fair- 
port  improvin'  and  gettin'  mair  respectable- 
like '" 

"Did  he  say  that?  For  if  he  did,  he's  a 
131 


leear,"  put  in  Mr.  Gorrie,  who  did  not  approve 
of  ministers. 

"  He  said  something  vera  near  it,  onywey," 
replied  Mr.  Smilie.  "  An'  then  he  says,  says 
he:  '  Ma  dear  freen's  an'  fellow  Fairportonians, 
her  leddyship  has  a  notion  that  Fairport  can 
be  still  f urder  improved ;  an',  to  encourage  ye  a' 
to  improve,  she's  wrote  me  this  letter  frae  Lon- 
don, offerin'  twa  prizes  o'  ten  pound  each — yin 
for  adults  an'  yin  for  juveniles.  An'  the  prizes 
is  to  gang  to  the  adult  an'  the  juvenile  that 
does  the  kindest  deed  atween  this  date  and  the 
end  o'  the  year.  I  am  to  report  a'  the  kind 
deeds  to  her  leddyship,  wi'oot  tellin'  the  names 
of  the  deeders — I  meant  for  to  say  doers — an' 
she'll  decide  which  gets  the  prizes;  an'  the 
prizes'll  be  presentit  on  the  first  day  o'  the 
New  Year,  at  noon,  prompt ! '  An'  that's  the 
solemn  truth,  John  Gorrie.  What  think  ye 
aboot  it?" 

"  Her  leddyship's  daft,"  said  Mr.  Gorrie. 
"  But  I  suppose  she'll  keep  her  word." 

"Oh,  there's  nae  fear  o'  her  no'  cashin'  up 
when  the  time  comes.  I  hope,"  Mr.  Smilie 
sniggered,  "  ye'll  no'  forget  to  mention  ma  kind 
deed  to  the  meenister,  John." 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

"  Weel,  was  it  no'  a  kind  deed  for  me  to  come 
here,  stracht  frae  the  concert,  to  tell  ye  aboot 
the  prize,  so  as  ye  could  stert  even  wi'  the  ither 
folk— eh?" 

"When   I  seen  ye   at  ma  door,"  said   Mr. 


HIS  NEIGHBOURS'  KINDNESS    133 

Gorrie,  very  dryly,  "  I  had  the  notion  that  ye 
had  come  to  pey  back  the  twa  shillin's  I  lent 
ye  three  year  syne.  I  didna  think  ye  wud  ha'e 
the  neck  to  come  to  ma  door  wi'  ony  ither 
reason.  I  confess  I  had  a  dram  in  me  at  the 
time,  itherwise  I  wudna  ha'e  been  sae  saft  as 
to  trust  ye."  It  should  be  mentioned  that  three 
years  previously  Mr.  Gorrie  had  retired  from  the 
joys  and  sorrows  of  bricklaying  on  a  legacy. 

"  Ach,  man,"  returned  Mr.  Smilie,  with  a 
hearty  laugh,  "  what's  twa  shillin's  ?  Let  by- 
gones be  bygones — that's  ma  motto!  I  cam' 
hurryin'  here  the  nicht,  missin'  the  chance  o'  a 
bottle  o'  beer  that  Sandy  M'Feat  was  thinkin'  o' 
staun'in',  him  bein'  greatly  affectit  wi'  the  idea 
o'  kind  deeds — I'm  sayin'  I  cam'  hurryin'  here 
to  gi'e  ye  the  chance  o'  winnin'  five  pound ! " 

"  Five ! — ye  said  it  was  ten  pound !  " 

"  Ten  pound  dividet  by  twa  is  five.  We're 
the  twa  that'll  dae  the  dividin'.  Twa  heids  is 
better  nor  yin — d'ye  see  ?  " 

"  It  depends  on  the  heids.  But  I  see  what  ye 
mean."  Mr.  Gorrie's  tone  was  a  trifle  less  un- 
pleasant. He  stroked  his  grizzled  whiskers. 

"  Of  course  we  maun  keep  it  a  secret." 

"  Keep  what  a  secret  ?  " 

"  That  you  an'  me  is  workin'  in  comp'ny." 

"  I  thocht  ye  was  gaun  to  say  ye  had  a  plan," 
said  Mr.  Gorrie,  looking  disappointed. 

Mr.  Smilie  rubbed  his  chin  and  grinned. 

"  I  want  yer  word  that  ye'll  no'  betray  me, 
John." 


134    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"What  wud  I  betray  ye  for?"  Mr.  Gorrie 
indignantly  demanded. 

"Ten  pound,"  replied  Mr.  Smilie;  adding, 
"  Hooever,  I'll  tmst  ye." 

"  What's  yer  plan?" 

Mr.  Smilie  suppressed  a  snigger. 

"  Man,  it's  that  simple,  John !  Can  ye  no' 
guess  ?  " 

"  Nane  o'  yer  chaff ! "  retorted  Mr.  Gorrie, 
whose  imagination  was  limited. 

"  Weel,"  said  the  other  easily,  "  ye  needna 
bite  ma  nose  aff.  The  poseetion's  jist  this: — 
Afore  fower  weeks  is  by,  ye've  got  to  perform 
an  extra'ornar'  deed  o'  kindness;  but  afore  ye 
can  dae  that,  ye've  got  to  find  somebody  to  per- 
form it  on ! " 

"  That's  easy  done." 

"  Is  it  ?  I  tell  ye,  man,  afore  ye're  a  day 
aulder,  the  folk  in  Fairport'll  be  tumblin'  ower 
each  ither  to  perform  deeds  o'  kindness.  It'll 
no'  be  a  case  o'  gettin'  folk  to  gi'e  kindness ;  the 
deeficulty'll  be  to  get  folk  to  tak'  it.  D'ye  see?  " 

"  Maybe  ye're  richt ! "  said  Mr.  Gorrie 
dubiously. 

"  Ay,  I'm  richt !  An'  this  is  whaur  /  come  in, 
ma  f  reen' ;  this  is  whaur  you  get  the  advantage 
o'  yer  neebours !  On  condeetion  that  ye  pay  me 
five  pound  on  receipt  o'  the  ten — when  ye  get 
it,  of  course — I'm  ready  an'  willin'  to  be  per- 
formed on!  Ye  can  practise  kind  deeds  on  me, 
John,  to  wnr  mutual  profit !  "  And  Mr.  Smilie 
grinned  encouragingly. 


HIS  NEIGHBOURS'  KINDNESS      135 

A  growl  came  from  Mr.  Gorrie. 

"  An'  ye  think  I'm  gaun  to  dae  kind  deeds  to 
a  man  that's  been  owin'  me  twa  shillin's  for 
three  year?  No' likely!  Ye  better  gang  hame, 
Bob  Smilie,  an' " 

Bob  held  up  a  grimy  hand. 

"  But  wait ! "  he  said  in  a  soothing  voice. 
"  There's  a  reason  why  you  should  perform  the 
kind  deeds.  I'm  willin'  to  be  the  performer, 
but  kind  deeds  frae  me  wudna  be  greatly 
noticed;  whereas,  if  John  Gorrie  was  to  dae  a 
kind  deed,  Fairport  to  a  man  wud  be  that 
astonished  that  the  deed  wud  seem  a  hunner- 
and-fifty  times  as  kind  as  it  really  was!  An' 
afore  ye  stert  operations,  ye  can  tell  everybody 
hoo  bad  I  treatit  ye  regairdin'  that  loan  o'  twa 
shillin's,  an'  that'll  mak'  the  kind  deed  look 
even  kinder.  Is  that  no'  veesible  to  yer  naked 
eye,  as  the  sayin'  is?  " 

"  Ye're  an  impiddent  character,"  said  Mr. 
Gorrie  sulkily.  "  I'm  an  aulder  man  nor  you ; 
it's  me  that  sud  get  the  deed  o'  kindness." 

However,  after  half  an  hour  of  wrangling,  he 
gave  in  on  condition  that  his  partner's  share 
of  the  profit  should  be  subject  to  a  reduction 
of  two  shillings. 

In  comparative  amity  they  forthwith  pro- 
ceeded to  discuss  details  of  the  scheme  pro- 
pounded by  Mr.  Bob  Smilie. 

The  prophecy  of  Mr.  Smilie  concerning 
"  ither  folk "  proved  only  too  true.  It  was 


136    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  discover  in  Fair- 
port  and  its  vicinity  an  individual  willing  to 
accept  kindness  in  any  shape  or  form.  Indeed, 
several  nasty  quarrels  occurred,  and  by  the 
third  week  in  December  the  Reverend  Mr.  Shel- 
broke  was  heartily  wishing  that  her  ladyship's 
letter  proffering  the  prizes  had  never  been 
penned. 

It  was  now  the  day  after  Christmas,  and 
popular  feeling  was,  to  put  it  mildly,  running 
high.  As  someone  expressed  it,  the  folk  were 
"  like  flees  bein'  droonded  in  the  mulk  o'  hu- 
man kindness."  So  keen  was  competition  be- 
come that  many  of  the  vilagers,  old  as  well  as 
young,  finding  it  out  of  the  question  to  do 
anything  for  their  fellows,  had  turned  their 
gentle  attentions  to  the  humbler  forms  of  crea- 
tion. Not  a  horse  was  made  to  hurry;  dogs 
were  allowed  all  manner  of  liberties ;  stray  cats 
were  offered  board  and  lodging,  and  practically 
encouraged  to  steal ;  even  pigs  were  pampered. 
Locally,  fowls  for  culinary  purposes  were  un- 
obtainable— under  5s.  6d.  with  an  oath  of 
secrecy.  The  plumber,  having  a  hen  that  had 
injured  its  left  leg,  put  the  limb  in  splints,  and 
refused  to  leave  its  side,  even  when  a  pipe 
burst  in  one  of  the  villas.  Everyone  fed  the 
birds.  Mr.  Banks,  the  fishmonger,  heaved  sighs 
over  his  wares,  including  the  kippers  and  finnan 
baddies,  as  if  he  were  grieved  for  them.  A  little 
girl  was  observed  giving  cream  to  a  worm  in 
a  disused  tobacco  tin.  Two  small  boys  spent 


HIS  NEIGHBOURS'  KINDNESS      137 

the  better  part  of  a  day  in  trying  to  coax  a 
trapped  mouse  to  eat  four  ounces  of  cheese; 
eventually  they  set  it  free  in  the  baker's  shop, 
and  the  baker,  after  clenching  his  hands  and 
biting  off  a  bad  word,  presented  them  with  a 
tart  apiece,  whereupon  the  small  boys  gaily 
departed,  promising  to  bring  more  mice  on  the 
same  terms. 

The  weather  was  mild  for  the  time  of  year. 
Joseph  Redhorn,  the  painter,  stood  at  his  door, 
meditatively  smoking  a  cigarette  of  the  worst 
quality  possible.  But,  as  Joseph  had  more 
than  once  pointed  out,  it  was  cheaper  to  be  a 
philosopher  than  a  "  connisewer."  Business 
was  extremely  slack,  as  was  to  be  expected  at 
that  season,  and  he  had  given  his  apprentice  a 
holiday.  "  Mind,  Wullie,"  he  had  said,  "  if  I 
hear  o'  ye  tryin'  on  ony  deeds  o'  kindness,  I'll 
reconseeder  gi'ein'  ye  a  rise  in  yer  wages  at  the 
New  Year.  Awa'  hame  an'  break  sticks  for  yer 
mither." 

Mr.  Redhorn  was  not  competing  for  the 
Deeds  of  Kindness  Prize.  He  had  been  first 
amused,  then  irritated,  by  his  neighbours'  out- 
breaks of  benevolence;  nevertheless,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  restraining  himself  when  anyone,  as 
frequently  happened,  dropped  hints,  more  or 
less  obvious,  of  his  or  her  latest  "  Deed."  Some- 
how the  people,  knowing  that  Joseph  was  not  a 
competitor,  regarded  him  as  a  sort  of  recorder, 
whose  evidence  might  be  valuable  later 
on. 


138    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  A  fine  day,  Mr.  Ridhorn." 

A  middle-aged  woman  had  paused  in  her 
walk  through  the  village. 

"  Ay,  it's  no'  sae  bad,"  he  responded  agree- 
ably. 

"  I'm  just  takin'  a  new-laid  egg  to  auld  Mis- 
tress M'Phedron,"  said  the  woman  carelessly, 
displaying  the  article  named.  "  Puir  body,  I 
doot  she's  no'  lang  for  this  warld." 

"  If  she  can  manage  an  egg,"  observed  the 
painter,  "  she's  no'  that  near  to  dissolution. 
To  me  that's  subjec'  to  dyspepsia,  an  egg  means 
meesery.  It  gars  me  desire  naething  but  the 
tomb."  He  blew  a  whiff  and  spat  out  a  con- 
siderable quantity  of  tobacco,  and  adjusted  his 
spectacles. 

"  Eggs  is  terrible  scarce  the  noo,"  said  the 
woman,  who  was  not  interested  in  Mr.  Red- 
horn's  physical  economy.  "  If  I  was  sellin' 
mines,  I  could  get  twa-an'-nine  the  dizzen;  but 
I'm  sorry  for  Mistress  M'Phedron." 

"  Hens  ha'e  nae  conscience  this  weather,"  re- 
plied Joseph,  ignoring  the  point;  and  the 
woman,  after  a  wistful  look  at  him,  passed  on. 

"  Fairport's  gaun  to  pot,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  I've  seen  the  day  when  she  wud  ha'e  gi'ed 
awa'  a  dizzen  o'  her  eggs,  an'  never  let  bug  to 
a  livin'  creature.  .  .  .  Fine  mornin',  John. 
What's  new  wi'  ye?" 

This  to  Mr.  Gorrie,  who  had  strolled  up,  wear- 
ing a  conscious  smirk  on  his  naturally  sour 
countenance. 


HIS  NEIGHBOURS'  KINDNESS       139 

"  Ha'e  ye  got  peyment  o'  yer  twa  shillin's 
yet?"  inquired  the  painter. 

Mr.  Gorrie  became  solemn.  "  Oh,  whisht, 
whisht !  "  he  said  in  a  loud  whisper.  "  Dinna  re- 
fer to  that — I'm  sayin',  dinna  refer  to  that." 

"  Weel,"  replied  Mr.  Redhorn,  surprised,  "  I 
wudna  ha'e  referred  to  it,  if  you  hadna  been 
referrin'  to  naething  else  for  the  last  twa-three 
weeks.  'Deed,  I  was  under  the  impression  that 
it  was  yer  chief  interest  in  this  life  here  be- 
low; an'  if  Fairport  hadna  been  ower  busy 
daein'  deeds  o'  kindness,  it  wud  ha'e  been  the 
chief  topic  o'  scandalous  conversation.  Has 
Smilie  peyed  ye  the  cash  ?  " 

"Oh,  dinna  mention  cash,  man;  dinna  men- 
tion it!  I  canna  bear  the  mention  o'  it.  Ha'e 
ye  no'  heard  aboot  Bob  Smilie?  " 

"  What?    Has  he  done  a  slope?  " 

"  Oh,  man,  man !  What  wey  dae  ye  think 
evil  aboot  the  puir  body?  D'ye  ye  no'  ken  he's 
lyin'  badly  in  ma  hoose?" 

"  Lyin'  badly  in  your  hoose?  'Deed,  I'm 
sorry  I  spoke,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  in  mingled 
astonishment  and  apology.  "  What's  wrang 
Has  he  met  wi'  an  accident?" 

Mr.  Gorrie  shook  his  head.  "  He  was  took 
bad  wi'  lumbago  in  his  kist  the  nicht  afore 
last" 

"  In  your  hoose?" 

"  No'  exac'ly ;  but  there's  a  leak  in  the  roof 
o'  his  ain  hoose,  which  is  a  meeserable,  cauld 
place  forbye;  an'  I  couldna  but  offer  him  ma 


140    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

am  comfortable  bed;  an'  there  he's  lyin'  noo, 
weel  happit  up,  an'  I'm  daein'  ma  best  for  him. 
He  thinks  he's  a  wee  thing  easier  the  day,  an' 
he  had  a  notion  for  a  pair  o'  kippers,  so  I  cam' 
alang  to  buy  them."  Here  Mr.  Gorrie  paused, 
as  one  who  finds  his  conversation  exhausted. 

At  last,  Mr.  Kedhorn  said  slowly : — 

"  I  can  only  say,  John,  that  ye've  acted  un- 
common weel." 

"  I  couldna  dae  onything  else,"  said  Mr.  Gor- 
rie modestly.  With  an  effort  he  met  the  other's 
eye,  but  as  it  seemed  somewhat  cold,  he  im- 
mediately became  interested  in  the  hills  across 
the  loch. 

"  Ay ;  ye've  acted  uncommon  weel,"  repeated 
the  painter.  "  Is  Smilie  sufferin'  ?  " 

"  Agony  ...  at  least,  he's  no'  sae  bad  the 
day.  I  wantit  him  to  get  the  doctor;  but  he 
was  like  a  madman.  He  says  it's  agin  his 
releegion  to  deal  wi'  doctors." 

"  Some  folk  is  like  that,"  the  painter  admit- 
ted. "  But  ye  micht  try  a  plaster  on  him.  I'll 
gi'e  ye  a  sample  of  some  I  had  for  rheumatics." 

"  Thenk  ye,  thenk  ye !  "  Expressions  of  re- 
lief and  doubt  were  visible,  in  turn,  on  Mr. 
Gorrie's  face. 

Mr.  Redhorn  ran  into  his  house. 

"  Efter  ye've  applied  it,"  he  said  on  his  re- 
turn, "ye  best  gang  oot  for  a  walk.  It's  a 
guid  plaster,  but  it  doesna  improve  the  temper, 
an'  Bob  Smilie,  when  he's  roused,  is  an 
orator ! " 


HIS  NEIGHBOURS'  KINDNESS      ,141 

"  Thenk  ye,  thenk  ye,"  Mr.  Gorrie  repeated, 
not  knowing  what  else  to  say  regarding  the 
remedy,  a  thin  roll  of  paper,  in  his  hand. 
"  Aweel,"  he  went  on  hastily,  "  I  best  see  aboot 
the  kippers ;  an'  there's  ither  things  I've  to  buy 
for  him.  When  ye're  lyin'  badly  ye  can  dae  wi' 
a  bit  luxury,  Ridhorn — eh? — espaycially  when 
it's  no'  costin'  ye  onything?  Ha,  ha!  Eh,  Rid- 
horn? But  I  dinna  grudge  it,  though  I'm  a 
puir  man." 

"  Jist  that,"  said  the  painter  equably.  "  As 
I've  already  observed,  ye've  acted  uncommon 
weel ;  but  see  an'  no'  ruin  yersel' !  " 

Gorrie  walked  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
shops.  Within  an  hour  Bob  Smilie's  indisposi- 
tion was  known  to  nearly  every  soul  in  Fair- 
port.  Unfortunately,  the  general  feeling  to- 
wards "  the  good  Samaritan,"  as  a  very  small 
minority  designated  Mr.  Gorrie,  was  that  of 
bitter  jealousy  with  a  desperate  desire  to  "  cut 
him  out." 

The  minister  had  left  the  house  of  John  Gor- 
rie, not  a  little  touched  by  that  individual's 
devotion  to  his  lodger  and  patient.  Knowing 
well  enough  that  in  the  past  little  love  had  been 
lost  between  the  two  men,  he  had  at  first 
doubted  the  host's  sincerity,  but  after  listening 
to  the  querulousness  of  the  guest  for  ten 
minutes  he  had  felt  ashamed  of  his  suspicions, 
and  almost  resigned  to  her  ladyship's  scheme 
for  encouraging  deeds  of  kindness.  Nay,  more, 


WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

he  had  practically  decided  to  recommend  John 
Gorrie  for  her  ladyship's  award. 

"  Man,  John,"  said  Mr.  Smilie,  who  was  now 
sitting  up  in  bed,  supping  raspberry  jam  from 
a  pot  presented  by  a  widow,  and  glancing  over 
a  weekly  journal  which  had  been  handed  in, 
with  some  ceremony,  by  Mr.  Danks,  the  fish- 
monger, "  Man,  John,  I  could  endure  this 
agony  for  three  month." 

Mr.  Gorrie  grunted.  He  was  engaged  in  try- 
ing to  make  his  bed  on  four  chairs,  none  of 
them  being  of  similar  height.  The  night  was 
yet  young,  but  he  was  consumed  with  sleep. 

"  Is  ma  supper  no'  near  ready  ?  "  the  invalid 
inquired. 

"  Supper !    Ye'll  get  nae  supper  the  nicht." 

"What?" 

"  I'm  tellin'  ye,  ye'll  get  nae  supper  the  nicht. 
I'm  ower  wearit.  I've  had  nae  sleep  for  three 
nichts." 

"Ye  wud  sleep  better  if  ye  didna  snore," 
said  Mr.  Smilie  cheerfully.  "  Hurry  up  wi'  ma 
supper.  I  believe  I  could  shift  a  pair  o* 
poached  eggs.  Hurry  up,  John.  Ye  can  ha'e 
an  egg  yersel',  seein'  we're  in  the  midst  o' 
plenty." 

Plenty  was  precisely  the  word  for  it.  For 
two  days  Fairport  had  simply  showered  bene- 
fits— chiefly  in  the  shape  of  bodily  sustenance — • 
on  the  invalid.  Unlike  most  of  his  neighbours, 
Mr.  Smilie  had  made  no  attempt  to  discourage 
deeds  of  kindness  on  his  own  behalf. 


HIS  NEIGHBOURS'  KINDNESS      143 

"  An'  there's  the  cake  that  Mistress  Donald 
sent  yesterday,"  he  went  on.  "  I'll  ha'e  to  taste 
it.  Dinna  let  the  fire  get  low.  I  micht  as  weel 
use  the  coals  that  Peter  Henderson  sent.  He's 
a  kind  man,  is  Peter  Henderson.  If  I  was 
spreadin'  his  kindness  abroad,  it  micht  spile 
yer  chance  for  the  adult  prize,  John." 

"  See  here ! "  cried  Mr.  Gorrie,  "  I'll  see 
ye  stiff  afore  I  dae  yer  biddin'  again,  Bob 
Smilie." 

Mr.  Smilie  sniggered.  "  Afore  ye  mak'  the 
supper,  ye  can  wash  ma  face.  It's  sticky  wi' 
this  jam.  Mind  I  prefer  the  water  luke- 
warm." 

Mr.  Gorrie  was  on  the  verge  of  an  explosion, 
when  a  knock  fell  on  the  door.  Hastily  pro- 
curing some  warm  water  in  a  basin,  he  placed 
it,  with  a  towel,  on  a  chair  by  the  bedside,  flung 
the  almost  empty  jam-pot  and  the  weekly 
journal  under  the  bed,  and  breathlessly  cursed 
the  occupant  thereof.  He  then  opened  the  door. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  he  said  softly,  "  but 
dinna  mak'  a  noise." 

Mr.  Redhorn  came  in. 

The  invalid  emitted  a  moan. 

"  I  was  jist  for  washin'  his  face,"  explained 
the  host.  "  He  feels  it  soothin'-like.  An'  then 
I  was  for  makin'  him  a  bit  supper.  He's  got  to 
keep  up  his  strength." 

Mr.  Redhorn  nodded.  "  I  merely  ca'ed  to  see 
if  the  plaster  had  done  ony  guid." 

"Oh,"    said    the    sufferer,    with    a    fearful 


144    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

grimace,  "  it  done  me  guid  for  the  time  bein', 
but  it  was  terrible  severe." 

"  'Deed,  ay,"  added  "  the  good  Samaritan," 
rolling  his  eyes,  "  it  raised  an  awfu'  blister.  I 
was  sair  vexed  for  him." 

The  painter  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  That's  vera  interesting"  he  remarked  at 
last.  "  I  never  heard  o'  wall-paper  at  ninepence 
the  piece  daein'  that  afore." 

Thereupon  he  took  his  departure. 

"  Ye  muckle  eediot !  "  said  Mr.  Gorrie. 

"  Ye  dooble-dyed  gowk !  "  retorted  Mr.  Smilie. 
"  What  wey  did  ye  burn  the  thing  wi'oot  lukin* 
at  it?" 

"  What  wey  did  ye  tell  me  to  stap  it  in  the 
fire?" 

The  conspirators  glared  angrily  at  each 
other. 

Then  Mr.  Gorrie,  without  a  word,  rushed 
from  the  house.  He  overtook  the  painter  at 
the  latter's  door. 

"  See  here,  Ridhorn,"  he  said  reproachfully, 
"  it  wasna  fair  to  play  a  joke  on  a  seeck  man. 
It's  true  that  I — I  lost  the  plaster,  or  paper,  or 
whatever  it  was,  afore  I  had  examined  it;  but 
Bob  an'  me  didna  want  to  hurt  yer  feelin's,  so 
we  decidet  to  let  on  we  had  used  it.  D'ye  see?  " 

"  Weel,  weel,"  said  Mr.  Redhorn,  "  I'll  forgi'e 
ye,  for  I  perceive  I'm  no'  blameless  masel'.  An' 
the  least  I  can  dae  is  to  gi'e  ye  a  genuine 
plaster  for  Smilie,  wi'oot  delay.  Jist  wait  a 

jiffy." 


HIS  NEIGHBOURS'  KINDNESS      145 

A  minute  later  Mr.  Gorrie  departed  in  pos- 
session of  the  genuine  plaster  and  sundry  in- 
structions for  its  application. 

"  If  I've  time,  I'll  luk  in  the  morn's  mornin', 
an'  see  hoo  he's  gettin'  on,"  Mr.  Redhorn  called 
after  him. 

Mr.  Smilie  protested  forcibly,  yet  could  not 
but  submit  himself  to  Mr.  Redhorn's  remedy. 
Throughout  the  night  he  gave  vent  to  dire 
sounds.  Mr.  Gorrie,  feigning  slumber,  quaked 
with  inward  mirth  until  he  rolled  off  his  bed 
of  chairs,  bruising  himself  rather  severely.  In 
the  morning  both  men  were  decidedly  short- 
tempered. 

"  Hurry  up  wi'  ma  breakfast,"  shouted  the 
invalid,  a  little  after  eight  o'clock. 

"  I'm  hurryin',"  retorted  "  the  good  Samari- 
tan," and  let  fall  an  egg  on  the  hearth-stone. 

"I'll  thenk  ye  no'  to  waste  ma  property," 
cried  Smilie. 

"What?  Wha's  property?  The  proveesions 
is  nae  mair  yours  nor  mines." 

"  I  beg  yer  paurdon !  The  deeds  of  kindness 
was  done  to  me.  They're  ma  property." 

"  They're  ma  security  till  I  get  the  prize 
money." 

Mr.  Smilie  sat  up.  "  They're  mines !  I'm 
tellin'  ye,  the  deeds  o'  kindness  is  mines;  an' 
if  ye  want  an  egg  or  onything  else  for  yer 
ain  breakfast,  ye've  got  to  ask  ma  permeesion." 

"  Ask  yer  permeesion !  "  A  spasm  of  rage  con- 
torted Mr.  Gorrie's  face,  and  he  lifted  an  egg 


146    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

in  each  hand.  "  Tak'  that,  an'  that !"  Mr.  Gor- 
rie  fired  the  eggs  in  quick  succession.  They  ex- 
ploded against  the  wall,  the  target  having 
dodged  beneath  the  bed-clothes. 

Mr.  Redhorn  stood  in  the  doorway,  smiling 
drily. 

"  I  observe  ye're  gi'ein'  him  his  breakfast," 
he  remarked. 

Mr.  Gorrie  said  nothing;  Mr.  Smilie  re- 
mained in  concealment. 

"  But  I  didna  come  in  to  interrup'  kind 
deeds,"  Mr.  Redhorn  continued.  "  As  a  matter 
o'  fac',  I'm  assisting  the  meenister,  this  fine 
mornin',  to  spread  a  certain  piece  of  news.  In 
the  first  place,  her  leddyship,  wha',  as  ye  ken, 
has  been  traivellin'  in  London,  an'  the  Con- 
tinent o'  Europe,  arrived  hame,  per  spaycial 
steamer,  last  nicht.  An'  afore  she  had  even  got 
a  dish  o'  tea  she  sent  for  the  meenister.  They 
were  closeted  thegether,  as  the  novelles  say,  for 
upwards  of  hauf  an  'oor.  At  nine  o'clock  the 
meenister  chappit  at  ma  door.  I  was  vexed 
for  him."  Again  Mr.  Redhorn  paused.  "  I 
hope,"  he  remarked,  "  Maister  Smilie'll  no'  get 
suffocatit  wi'  his  modesty " 

"  See  here !  "  began  Mr.  Gorrie. 

"  I  see  ye're  anxious  to  get  the  news.  Weel, 
it  appears  that  her  leddyship  has  had  nae  cor- 
respondence wi'  the  meenister  during  the  last 
sax  month.  It  appears  likewise  that  the  letter 
the  meenister  got  the  day  o'  the  concert  was  nae 
mair  nor  a  hoax — a  vile  hoax,  the  meenister 


HIS  NEIGHBOURS'  KINDNESS       147 

ca'ed  it.  The  author  is  unknown,  but  I  suspect 
a  certain  vera  jocular  young  gent  that  was 
bidin'  in  Fairport  in  September.  Hooever,  the 
p'int  is  that  the  Deeds  o'  Kindness  Compitee- 
tion  is  cancelled — in  ither  words,  up  a  gum 
tree.  Her  leddyship  was  greatly  annoyed  an' 
distressed  that  sic  a  hoax  sud  be  played  in  her 
name,  and  I've  to  inform  ye  that  she  has  pro- 
videt  funds  for  to  pey  for  a  tea-meetin',  cine- 
matograph, and  phonograph  entertainment  on 
the  third  o'  January,  prox.,  to  which  a'  Fair- 
port  is  cordially  invited.  Afore  leavin'  ye  to 
recover  frae  yer  gratefu'  stupefaction,  I  wud 
just  like  to  encourage  ye  to  conteenue  in  daein' 
kind  deeds.  I  observe  a  conseederable  supply  o' 
proveesions  an'  ither  articles  in  these  premises 
o'  yours ;  an'  I  happen  to  be  aware  that  there's 
a  conseederable  want  o'  the  same  in  the 
premises  occupied  by  the  weeda  Morrison  an' 
her  five  sma'  offsprings — 

"  Get  oot  o'  this ! "  bawled  Mr.  Gorrie. 

"  I'm  merely  offerin'  ye  a  suggestion,"  Mr. 
Kedhorn  went  on  placidly.  "  If  ye  accep'  it 

afore  dinner-time,  I'm  dumb.  Itherwise " 

He  turned  and  departed. 

Mr.  Smilie  uncovered  his  face. 

"  I'm  thinkin',  John,  ye  wud  prefer  me  to  be 
dumb  likewise,"  he  said  brightly;  adding: 
"Hurry  up  wi'  ma  breakfast,  an'  then  I'll  see 
if  I  can  rise." 


XI 
HIS  DISTRESS 

MB.  REDHORN  was  in  high  spirits.  The 
New  Year  had  begun  well — so  well 
that  he  had  been  compelled  to  engage 
the  assistance  of  a  journeyman  painter  from 
Glasgow  to  enable  him  to  cope  with  the  work 
he  had  undertaken.  He  had  actually  felt  justi- 
fied in  offering  the  Glasgow  man  a  six  weeks' 
engagement,  at  the  very  least. 

"  There's  naething  like  tred — when  it's  guid," 
he  remarked  gaily  to  Willie  in  the  shop,  one 
February  morning.  "  It's  a  lang  while  since  I 
had  to  get  a  man  frae  Glesca.  It'll  be  near 
seeven  year.  .  .  .  But  he  wasna  a  great  suc- 
cess," he  added  thoughtfully. 

"What  was  wrang  wi'  him?"  inquired 
Willie,  who  was  industriously  stirring  some- 
thing in  a  large  pot. 

"  Aw — he  was  ower  sentimental,  Wullie." 

"Eh?" 

"  Weel,  he  was  a  young  man,  ye  see,  an'  he 
hadna  been  here  a  roon'  o'  the  clock  afore  he 
had  a  lass.  I  forget  wha  she  was — but  she  was 
a  rale  nice  lass — an'  I  had  nae  fau't  to  fin'  wi' 
the  man's  ch'ice.  He  was  in  earnest,  tae ;  for  a 

148 


HIS  DISTRESS  149 

year  efter  he  left  Fairport  he  cam'  back  an' 
mairrit  her.  I  was  invitet  to  the  waddin',  but 
at  that  time  I  had  to  avoid  social  joys,  bein'  a 
martyr  o'  dyspepsia.  But  that's  no'  the  p'int. 
The  p'int  is  that  he  let  his  amorous  feelin's  get 
the  better  o'  his  professional  yins.  Love's 
young  dream  is  a'  vera  fine,  but  a  man  canna 
mak'  a  dacent  job  o'  a  winda-shutter  when  he's 
aye  keekin'  oot  the  winda  to  see  if  his  lass  is 
comin'  alang  the  road.  Ye  canna  dae  twa 
things  at  the  same  time,  Wullie.  Mind  that! 
If  Providence  had  intendit  a  man  to  dae  twa 
things  at  yinst,  Providence  wud  ha'e  pit  yin  o' 
his  e'en  at  the  back  o'  his  heid." 

"  Then  every  man  wud  need  to  be  bald-heidit 
at  the  back,"  remarked  Willie,  with  a  snigger. 

"  Pey  attention  to  yer  wark,  laddie,"  said 
Mr.  Redhorn  a  little  shortly. 

"  But  what  else  did  the  young  man  dae  for- 
bye  sp'ilin'  the  shutter?" 

"  Aw,  I  canna  mind  a'  he  did,  Wullie,"  said 
Mr.  Redhorn,  recovering  his  good  humour. 
"  The  shutter  was  merely  a  feegure  o'  speech. 
I  mind  he  papered  a  bedroom  wi'  the  paper  up- 
side doon;  but  it  was  a  paper  o'  a  vera  con- 
fused design,  an'  I  decidet  to  say  naething 
aboot  it  unless  the  leddy  that  owned  the  hoose 
mentioned  it.  I  felt  kin'  o'  dishonest  for  twa- 
three  year  efter,  but  the  leddy  never  said  ony- 
thing,  an'  at  last  a  pipe  burst  an'  floodit  the 
room,  so  I  had  the  pleesure  o'  hingin'  a  new 
paper.  It's  a  true  sayin'  that  silence  is  golden, 


150    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

Wullie,  though  I  canna  say  I  look  back  wi' 
pride  to  that  parteeclar  example.  But  I  hadna 
the  hert  to  expose  the  young  man,  an'  I  admit 
I  wasna  sorry  to  save  aboot  thirty  shillin's." 

"  Ye  didna  let  me  aff  sae  easy,"  said  Willie 
in  an  aggrieved  tone  of  voice,  "  when  I  pit  the 
wrang  pent  on  thon  meat-safe." 

Mr.  Redhorn  smiled.  "  Weel,  weel,"  he  said 
mildly,  "  I'll  maybe  be  mair  lenient  wi'  ye, 
Wullie,  when  ye  get  a  lass — when  ye're  in  the 
throes  o'  Love's  young  dream." 

"  I  wudna  be  sae  daft ! "  the  boy  muttered 
scornfully,  reddening.  "  Did  ye  gi'e  the  silly 
chap  the  kick  efter  he  hung  the  paper  upside 
doon  ?  "  he  hastened  to  inquire. 

"  Na ;  I  kep'  him  till  his  month  was  up.  But 
I  pit  him  on  to  white-washin'  an'  ither  rough 
wark,  whaur  he  couldna  mak'  ony  vera  serious 
blunders." 

"  White-washin'  mak's  me  seeck,"  said 
W'illie. 

"  Weel,  ye'll  jist  ha'e  to  acquire  a  taste  for  it, 
ma  laddie.  It's  pairt  o'  yer  tred.  A  time'll 
come  when  ye'll  be  gled  to  get  a  white-washin' 
job.  Ye  needna  expec'  to  be  aye  employed  on 
fine  wark.  When  ye're  a  wean,  ye  think  ye'll 
no'  need  to  eat  yer  crusts  when  ye  grow  up; 
but  when  ye're  an  auld  man,  ye  soak  them  in 
yer  tea  afore  ye'll  waste  them.  Na,  na!  It's 
no'  a'  ivory  enamel  an'  gold  leaf  in  the  pentin' 
tred." 

Mr.    Redhorn   might   have   risen   to   higher 


HIS  DISTRESS  151 

flights,  but  Willie  interrupted  him  with  the 
question — 

"  Did  the  chap  ye  was  speakin'  aboot  like 
white-washin'  ?  " 

"  Och,  he  liket  everything  at  that  time.  It 
made  nae  odds  to  him  what  his  job  was.  I 
daursay  he  wud  ha'e  been  jist  as  pleased 
if  he  had  been  a  sclater  soopin'  a  vent, 
or  a  plumber  inside  a  drain-pipe.  He  sang  like 
a  lintie  frae  mornin'  till  nicht  aboot  a  lass  o' 
the  name  o'  Annie  Rooney — that  wasna  the 
richt  name,  of  course.  An'  he  had  a  smile  for 
everybody — even  for  Mistress  M'Innes,  when  he 
pit  his  brush  through  her  winda.  Some  folks 
said  they  were  fair  seeck  o'  his  sang  aboot  Miss 
Rooney,  but  he  never  heedit  them.  It  didna 
affec'  me  yin  wey  or  anither,  for  I'm  nae 
songster ;  but  I  wud  f  aur  rather  see  a  lad  cheery 
nor  glum,  so  I  didna  discourage  him.  'Deed,  he 
was  the  cheeriest  penter  I  ever  seen — an'  the 
warst.  But,  of  course,  he  wasna  responsible 
for  his  actions,  as  they  say  at  the  wife-beatin' 
trials." 

The  painter  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Awa'  oot  an'  see  if  the  boat's  comin', 
Wullie,"  he  said  briskly. 

The  boy  obeyed,  and  returned  within  two 
minutes. 

"  It's  no  comin'  yet,  Maister  Ridhorn.  A— 
is  the  penter  that's  comin'  wi'  the  boat  a  young 
chap?"  he  inquired. 

"  Na,  na.    I  doot  he'll  be  a  disapp'intment  to 


the  junior  female  population  o'  Fairport,  but 
I  wasna  inclined  to  risk  anither  sentimental 
yin.  I  daursay  John  Kelly — that's  his  name — 
wud  be  surprised  at  the  questions  in  ma  letter ; 
but  his  answer  said  that  he  was  forty-five,  mair- 
rit,  fower  children,  teetotal,  an'  nae  songster; 
an'  it  said,  forbye,  that  he  was  takin'  the  job 
for  his  health's  sake.  So  I  think  he'll  be  safe 
enough." 

"  Could  we  no'  ha'e  managed  wi'oot  a  man?  " 
asked  Willie,  who  secretly  resented  the  coming 
of  the  stranger. 

His  master  shook  his  head.  "  I've  promised 
to  ha'e  certain  jobs  feenished  at  certain  times, 
an'  I  couldna  keep  ma  promises  wi'oot  assist- 
ance. I'm  no'  wantin'  ma  customers  to  be 
turnin'  on  me  an'  sayin' — '  It's  easier  gettin'  ye 
into  the  hoose  nor  oot ! '  I  want  to  keep  to 
ma  bargain — or  as  near  it  as  possible.  The 
public's  aye  complainin'  aboot  tredsmen  never 
feenishin'  jobs  accordin'  to  arrangement,  an' 
I'm  boun'  to  admit  the  public  ha'e  whiles  reason 
for  complainin'.  But  I  defy  onybody  to  prove 
that  penters  are  the  warst  offenders.  In  ma 
unbased  opeenion  [Mr.  Redhorn  probably 
meant  to  say  '  unbiassed  '],  a  penter's  naething 
to  complain  aboot  compared  wi'  a  jiner. 
Criftens!  the  mere  sicht  o'  a  jiner  gars  me 
wonder  hoo  Noah  managed  to  get  the  Ark 
feenished  in  time.  An'  a  plumber's  nae  better ; 
only  ye  never  ken  exac'ly  what  a  plumber's 
daein'  wi'  yer  pipe,  an'  ye  daurna  say  a  word 


HIS  DISTRESS  153 

in  case  he  walks  aff  in  the  huff  an'  leaves  the 
water  scootin'  at  ye." 

Mr.  Redhorn  paused  a  moment,  and  con- 
tinued— 

"  At  the  same  time,  the  penter  is  faur  frae 
being  perfec'.  He's  by  nae  means  free  frae  the 
vice  o'  procrastinism.  When  ye're  a  journey- 
man,, Wullie,  try  to  keep  yer  promises.  If  ye 
succeed,  ye'll  maybe  dee  famous  an'  get  a  monu- 
ment to  yer  memory  frae  a  gratefu'  an'  as- 
toundit  public.  I've  aye  made  the  error  of 
promisin'  ower  muckle.  Tak'  advantage,  lad- 
die, o'  ma  experience.  If  ye're  offered  a  job 
that  ye  think  micht  be  feenished  in  a  week,  look 
as  sad  as  ye  can,  an'  say  ye'll  dae  yer  best  to 
complete  the  wark  in  a  fortnicht,  though  the 
effort  sud  ruin  yer  constitution.  Dinna  smile 
shuperior-like  an'  tell  yer  customer  ye'll  ha'e 
the  'hale  show  feenished  easy  in  three  days, 
wi'oot  fail.  In  ma  young  days  I  kent  a  man 
that  was  nicknamed  l  Wi'oot  Fail,'  because  he 
aye  said  the  words  to  his  customers.  He  was  a 
grocer,  a  dacent  man,  an'  I  hope  he's  still  got 
the  breath  to  say  the  words  wi',  though  I  never 
heard  tell  o'  him  livin'  up  to  them.  But  that's 
ma  advice  to  you,  Wullie.  Ca'  canny  wi'  yer 
promises,  an'  ye'll  maybe  live  to  stagger  hu- 
manity by  feenishin'  a  job  afore  ye  said  ye  wud. 
.  .  .  Rin  oot  an'  see  if  ye  can  spy  the  boat." 

This  time  Willie  returned  with  the  informa- 
tion that  the  steamer  was  rounding  the  point 
on  the  other  side  of  the  loch. 


154    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  Ye  better  gang  roon'  to  Mistress  Dobie,  an' 
tell  her  to  get  her  new  ludger's  breakfast 
ready,"  said  the  painter.  "  The  man'll  be  cauld 
an'  hungry  efter  his  journey,  an'  forbye  that, 
he's  comin'  to  Fairport  for  his  health." 

When  Willie  came  back  from  delivering  the 
message,  he  put  a  question  which  had  been  ex- 
ercising him  for  some  days — ever  since  he  had 
heard  that  the  man  was  coming. 

"  Maister  Ridhorn,  wull  I  need  to  dae  what 
he  tells  me  to  dae,  jist  the  same  as  if  he  was 
you?" 

"  Certainly,  Wullie,"  Mr.  Redhorn  replied 
promptly.  "  He'll  be  yer  maister  when  I'm  no' 
there.  Ye'll  let  him  see  what  a  smairt  lad  ye 
are,  an'  show  him  onything  he  canna  fin'  oot 
for  hissel'." 

The  boy  did  not  look  too  pleased. 

"  Hoo  lang  is  he  to  be  wi'  us?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  canna  say  for  certain,"  returned  the 
painter,  who  was  busy  selecting  some  brushes 
from  a  pot  of  water.  "  Sax  weeks  onyway, 
Wullie.  He'll  bide  langer,  maybe,  if  there's 
plenty  for  him  to  dae." 

There  was  a  short  silence  broken  by  Willie, 
who  said  in  a  low  voice — 

"  Sax  weeks !  Maybe  I'll  no'  be  here  in  sax 
weeks. 

"What  did  ye  say,  laddie?"  inquired  Mr. 
Redhorn,  without  looking  up. 

Willie  hesitated.  His  mother  had  told  him 
not  to  mention  to  anyone  in  the  village  the  pos- 


HIS  DISTRESS  165 

sibility  of  their  removal  from  Fairport.  But 
he  had  forgotten.  Now  he  remembered,  yet 
disobeyed  her  request. 

"  I  said  I  wud  maybe  no'  be  here  in  sax 
weeks." 

Mr.  Redhorn  stared  at  him.  "No'  here  in 
sax  weeks  ?  Hoo  that  ?  "  he  demanded. 

The  boy  grinned — somewhat  foolishly.  "  It's 
a  secret — I  wasna  to  tell  onybody — but  we're 
maybe  gaun  awa'  to  Canada." 

"  To  Canada !  "  gasped  the  painter.  "  Wha's 
gaun  to  Canada?" 

"  Ma  Uncle  Robert  sent  a  letter  to  ma  mither, 
an'  he  wants  her  to  gang  to  Canada  an'  keep 
his  hoose  for  him.  An'  I'm  to  gang  tae!  It'll 
be  fine!  Uncle  Robert's  been  makin'  a  heap 
o'  money  for  a  while  back.  .  .  .  But  I  wasna 
to  tell." 

Mr.  Redhorn  was  silent. 

"  Ye'll  no'  let  on  I  tell't  ye?  "  pleaded  Willie. 

"  Na,  na,"  his  master  briefly  replied.  "  See 
if  the  boat's  near  the  pier  yet,"  he  added  a 
moment  later. 

Left  to  himself,  the  painter  put  his  hand  to 
his  brow  and  sighed  heavily.  Willie's  in- 
formation was  a  severe  blow.  To  think  of  the 
boy  leaving  Fairport  was  sorrow  indeed.  The 
good  trade  was  nothing  to  him  now,  unless  a 
mockery. 

"  But  it's  no'  fixed  yet,"  he  said  to  himself, 
endeavouring  to  ease  the  burden  of  doubt  and 
despair  that  had  come  upon  him. 


Willie  reappeared.  "  The  boat'll  be  at  the 
pier  in  five  meenutes." 

"  Aweel,  I  best  gang  doon  an'  meet  John 
Kelly."  Mr.  Redhorn  did  not  look  at  his  ap- 
prentice. "  Ye  micht  clean  thur  brushes  till  I 
come  back." 

He  stepped  to  the  door. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  Maister  Ridhorn !  "  called  Wil- 
lie after  him  in  a  laughing  voice. 

Mr.  Redhorn  halted  and  turned  eagerly.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  Willie  had  only  been  joking 
about  Canada. 

"  There  some  yella  pent  on  yer  broo,"  said 
Willie. 

Mr.  Redhorn  fled. 


XII 
HIS  REWARD 

THE  painter  tapped  gently  on  the  cottage 
door  —  so  gently,  indeed,  that  his 
knuckles  on  the  wood  made  scarce  a 
sound.  He  waited  several  minutes,  then 
tapped  again,  a  trifle  less  gently.  An  ordinary 
human  ear  might  just  have  detected  the  tapping 
which  to  Mr.  Redhorn  seemed  like  thunder. 
Once  more  he  tapped,  and  stood  listening. 

Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps 
within,  and  he  drew  a  little  way  back  from 
the  door,  his  countenance  ruddy. 

But  the  footsteps  halted  abruptly ;  there  was 
a  loud  clank  followed  by  a  soft  thud.  A 
moment  later  the  sound  of  a  slight  splash 
reached  his  ears.  Then  came  a  thump;  and 
immediately  after  the  thump  began  a  noise 
which  Mr.  Redhorn  understood. 

"  She's  scrubbin'  her  kitchen,"  he  told  him- 
self. "  I  doot  I've  come  at  an  unseasonable 
time." 

He  turned  round,  stroking  his  nose  in  a 
foolish,  undecided  fashion  and  blinking  through 
his  spectacles  in  the  forenoon  sunshine.  "  Oh, 
criftens!"  he  sighed,  ''what  am  I  to  dae?" 

157 


158    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

As  if  for  inspiration  he  gazed  down  the  blue 
firth.  A  big  steamer  with  a  red  funnel  was 
bellowing  a  farewell  to  her  tender  that  piped 
a  mournful  reply. 

"  Allan  liner !  "  muttered  Mr.  Redhorn.  He 
started  violently.  His  ruddy  colour  faded. 
"Allan  liner  boun'  for  Canada — Canada"  He 
faced  the  door  and  again  knocked  more  loudly 
than  he  intended.  The  sound  of  scrubbing 
ceased.  He  clenched  his  hands. 

The  door  was  opened.  Mrs.  McWattie  stood 
before  him,  her  print  sleeves  rolled  above  her 
elbows,  a  sackcloth  apron  tied  round  her  waist. 
Her  comely,  fresh-coloured  face  wore  an  ex- 
pression of  surprise.  Then  she  smiled. 

"  Oh,  Maister  Ridhorn,  it's  you ! "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  This  is  a  fine  mornin'." 

"  Ay,  it's  a — a  fine  mornin',  Mrs.  McWattie. 
It's  a  fine  mornin'.  I  doot  we'll  get  rain  afore 
lang,  but  it's  a  fine  mornin',  as  ye  say.  Oh,  ay, 
it's  a  rale  fine  mornin'.  Ay ! "  Here  he  found 
himself  unable  to  proceed.  Beads  appeared  on 
his  brow;  his  countenance  suggested  intense 
mental  anguish. 

The  smile  faded  from  the  widow's  face. 

"  Come  ben,  Maister  Ridhorn,"  she  said 
gravely,  and  led  the  way  to  the  kitchen.  "  Mind 
yer  feet,  if  ye  please." 

The  warning  was  necessary,  for  the  painter 
was  about  to  put  his  left  foot  in  a  flat  tin  con- 
taining soft  soap.  With  his  right  he  sent  the 
scrubbing  brush  halfway  across  the  floor. 


HIS  REWARD  159 

"  Never  heed  it,"  said  Mrs.  McWattie.  "  Tak' 
a  sate.  Excuse  the  mess." 

Mr.  Redhorn  subsided  into  the  armchair, 
looking  dazed.  Mrs.  McWattie  stood,  leaning 
against  the  dresser.  The  silence  grew  heavy. 
The  widow  broke  it  at  last. 

"  Weel,  Maister  Ridhorn,"  she  said  very 
sadly,  "  I  suppose  it's  aboot  Wullie." 

Mr.  Redhorn  cleared  his  throat.  "  Wullie," 
he  began,  and  stuck. 

"  Oh,  ye  dinna  need  to  tell  me,"  she  said.  "  I 
ken  ye  dinna  want  to  hurt  ma  feelin's.  Mony's 
the  time  I've  tell't  Wullie  he  wud  try  yer 
patience  ower  faur  wi'  his  carelessness  an'  his 
pranks.  An'  he's  done  it  noo." 

«  But " 

"Na,  na.  Dinna  tell  me.  I  ken  fine  hoo 
mony  chances  ye've  gi'ed  him,  Maister  Rid- 
horn; an'  if  he's  no  gratefu'  to  ye,  his  mither 
is.  I'm  rale  vexed  he's  turned  oot  a  disapp'int- 
ment  to  ye.  He's  no'  a  bad  laddie,  but  he's 
careless  an'  fu'  o'  mischief,  an' — maybe  he 
needs  a  stricter  maister  nor  yersel'.  But,  oh! 
I  wish  he " 

Mr.  Redhorn  found  speech  at  last. 

"  Stop,  stop,  Mistress  McWattie ! "  he  cried. 
"Ye're  deludin'  yersel'!  I've  nae  complaints 
agin  Wullie.  He  hasna  played  a  prank  o'  ony 
description  for — for  near  a  week!  An'  he 
hasna  made  a  blunder  since — since  I  dinna  ken 
when.  Wullie's  gettin'  on  fine,  an'  I'm  rale 
pleased  wi'  him.  I  assure  ye  I  am.  I  wudna 


160    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

deceive  ye."  The  painter  stopped  like  a  clock 
run  down. 

Mrs.  McWattie's  face  expressed  her  relief, 
but  she  was  still  puzzled.  She  left  the  dresser 
and  came  over  to  the  fire. 

"  I'm  gled,  gled  to  hear  ye  say  that,"  she 
said,  not  quite  steadily.  "  When  I  think  o'  a' 
yer  kindness  to  ma  laddie,  I — I " 

"Whisht,  whisht,  Mistress!"  muttered 
Joseph,  exquisitely  uncomfortable. 

"  There's  naebody  wud  ha'e  treatit  Wullie 
like  what  you've  done,"  she  went  on.  "  I'm  no' 
speakin'  aboot  his  wages,  which  was  faur  bigger 
nor  his  wark  was  worth — but  ye've  been  guid 
to  Wullie  every  wey,  an' — an'  Wullie's  a'  I've 
got" 

"An'  he's  a'  -Tve  got,"  blurted  out  the 
painter,  and  grew  red  with  confusion.  "  I'm 
sure  I  dinna  ken  what  I  wud  dae  wantin' 
Wullie,"  he  stammered.  "  That — that's  what 
I  cam'  to  see  ye  aboot  the  day,  Mistress.  I — 
I  dinna  want  to  loss  Wullie." 

Mrs.  McWattie  eyed  the  pail  of  still  steaming 
water  and  said  soberly — 

"  I  suppose  Wullie's  been  tellin'  ye  aboot  his 
uncle,  Maister  Ridhorn." 

"  Ay.  But  I  wasna  to  tell.  I  never  thocht 
ye  wud  guess.  Ye'll  no'  be  angry  at  him.  The 
laddie  let  it  oot  unintentional-like." 

"  I  didna  want  him  to  tell  onybody  till  I  had 
decidet,"  she  returned  slowly.  "  But  I  suppose 
he  couldna  keep  it  frae  you,"  she  added,  smiling 


HIS  REWARD  161 

faintly.  "Wud  ye  no'  be  better  wi'  anither 
apprentice?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

Mr.  Redhorn  gasped.  "  Ha'e  ye  decidet  to — 
to  gang  to  Canada?  Aw,  Mistress  McWattie!  " 

"  No'  jist  decidet.  But  I'm  thinkin'  it's  ma 
duty  to  gang  for  Wullie's  sake,  let  alane  for 
my  ain  sake.  Ye  see,  Maister  Ridhorn,  Wullie 
wud  be  a  heap  the  better  o'  ha'ein'  his  uncle  to 
luk  efter  him,  an' " 

"  An'  what  aboot  yerseF  ?  "  asked  the  painter, 
in  a  husky  whisper. 

"Me?  Oh,  weel,  I  suppose  I'm  as  fond  o' 
comfort  an'  guid  things  as  maist  weemen.  An' 
ma  brithers  unco  weel  aff  nooadays.  It's  no' 
his  fau't  he  didna  offer  to  help  me  afore.  But 
he's  rale  willin'  noo,  an'  so  I'm  thinkin'  serious 
o'  Canada,  though  it's  a  lang  road  there.  But 
I'll  see  that  Wullie  gi'es  ye  a  fortnicht  notice 
onywey.  An'  I'll — I'll  never  forget  what  ye've 
done  for  him." 

Mr.  Redhorn  did  not  at  once  reply.  He  sat 
in  a  crouching  attitude,  his  interlocked  fingers 
working  nervously  between  his  knees.  When 
he  spoke,  his  voice  was  quite  unfamiliar  to  the 
widow. 

"  I  dinna  want  to  loss  Wullie,"  he  said,  the 
words  coming  spasmodically.  "  I've  nae  doot 
he  wud  dae  weel  in  Canada.  I'm  no'  sayin'  ony- 
thing  agin  the  place.  But  I'm  thinkin'  o' 
masel'.  I  dinna  want  to  loss  him.  D'ye  see, 
Mistress?  ...  I  dinna  want  to  loss  him. 
I'm  maybe  no'  as  weel  aff  as  his  respectit  uncle, 


162    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

but  there's  naebody  keener  for  Wullie  to  dae 
weel  an'  get  on  nor  Joseph  Ridhorn.  That's 
genuine !  ...  Ye  was  sayin'  ye  thocht  Wullie 
wud  be  the  better  o'  bein'  lukit  efter,  an'  I'm 
no'  denyin'  his  respectit  uncle  could  dae  that. 
But  so  could  Joseph  Ridhorn,  if — he  got  the 
chance.  .  .  .  Mistress  McWattie ! "  he  ex- 
claimed appealingly,  "  d'ye  no'  think  Wullie 
wud  be  as  weel  wi'  a  fayther-in-law  as  an 
uncle?" 

"A  what?" 

"  I  meant  for  to  say — a  stepfayther," 
said  Mr.  Redhorn,  collapsing  after  his  great 
effort. 

The  widow  crossed  the  floor  to  the  window. 
She  was  half  laughing,  half  crying. 

The  painter  rose,  and,  clutching  the  back 
of  his  chair,  hoarsely  whispered — 

"  Mistress  McWattie,  if  ye  gang  to  Canada, 
Joseph  Ridhorn's  a  done  man !  " 

It  was  near  the  dinner  hour  when  he  left  the 
cottage.  The  very  sun  seemed  to  be  shining, 
the  very  sea  sparkling,  for  joy  in  his  joy. 

He  turned  to  wave  his  hand  to  the  woman 
who  stood  in  the  cottage  doorway,  and 
stumbled  over  a  loose  stone,  so  that  his  cap 
fell  off.  Playfully  he  kicked  it  five  yards  in 
front  of  him,  and  when  he  had  picked  it  up, 
set  it  on  his  head  at  an  angle  of  jauntiness 
which  caused  several  neighbours  to  look  at  him 
twice.  As  he  neared  the  village  he  saw  ap- 


HIS  REWARD  163 

preaching  his  old  enemy,  Mr.  Danks,  the  fish- 
merchant. 

Joseph  held  his  head  a  little  higher,  but 
smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  At  one  time  he 
had  feared  Mr.  Danks  as  a  rival. 

Mr.  Danks  stopped. 

"  Ye're  lukin'  unco  joco'  the  day,  Professor 
Ridhorn,"  he  said,  with  a  sour  grin. 

"Am  I?" 

"  Ye've  maybe  no'  heard  the  news  aboot  Mis- 
tress McWattie.  She's  for  Canada !  " 

"  Is  she?  "  With  a  loud  laugh  Mr.  Redhorn 
walked  on,  leaving  the  fishmonger  gaping  after 
him. 

"  Fine  day,  Joseph,"  remarked  an  old  woman. 

"  Finest  I  ever  seen,"  returned  the  painter. 

But  at  the  sight  of  his  abode  his  excitement 
abated  and  gave  place  to  misgivings.  Willie 
would  be  awaiting  his  arrival,  as  arranged,  and 
Mr.  Redhorn  had  undertaken  to  break  the  news 
to  the  boy.  Ten  minutes  ago  it  had  seemed 
a  simple  task;  now  it  seemed  most  delicate 
and  difficult. 

Joseph  stepped  into  Mrs.  Fergus's  small  shop 
and  purchased  a  bottle  of  lemonade. 

"This  is  a  gran'  day,"  said  the  little 
woman. 

"  Ay,"  returned  Joseph  slowly,  "  it's  been  a 
fine  day  up  till  the  noo." 

At  the  door  of  his  home  he  found  Willie. 

"  Gang  ben,  laddie,"  he  said,  opening  the 
door.  "  Here  a  bottle  of  leemonade  for  ye  to 


164    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

tak'  afore  ye  rin  hame.  Sit  doon,  sit  doon. 
Is  Kelly  awa'  to  his  dinner?" 

"  Uh-ha.  Am  I  to  drink  it  oot  the  bottle, 
Maister  Ridhorn  ?  " 

"  Tits ! "  The  painter  got  a  tumbler  from 
the  cupboard.  "  There  ye  are." 

"  Thenk  ye.  Mistress  Young  was  here  a 
while  back  speirin'  what  wey  ye  hadna  been 
at  her  paurlour  this  mornin'.  Whar  was  ye?  " 

"  Whaur  was  I  ? "  Mr.  Redhorn  dropped 

into  his  easy-chair.  "  Aw,  I  was  alang  at " 

He  stopped  short.  Then :  "  Wullie,  was  ye 
speakin'  to  onybody  aboot  Canada?" 

Willie  moved  uneasily  on  his  chair.  "  I 
forgot.  I  didna  mean  to  tell  onybody  but 
you." 

"  Aweel,  it  canna  be  helpit.  Tell  me,  is — is 
yer  hert  set  on  gaun  to  Canada?  " 

"  I  wud  like  fine  to  gang,"  said  Willie,  and 
took  a  pull  at  his  lemonade. 

Mr.  Redhorn  sighed.  "  But  no'  wi'oot  yer 
mither?" 

"  Aw,  no'  wi'oot  her.  ...  I  wudna  get 
gaun  ma  lane." 

"  Ye  inicht  get  gaun  yer  lane,  if  ye  was 
aulder,  an'  if  ye  was  a  journeyman,  an'  if  the 
chances  was  better  there  nor  here.  I  wudna 
staun'  in  yer  road,  laddie,  I  wudna — I  mean 
to  say,  yer  mither  wudna  staun'  in  yer  road, 
though  she  wud  miss  ye  sair.  But  i'  the  mean- 
time, Wullie,  i'  the  meantime "  Mr.  Red- 
horn  could  get  no  further  just  then. 


HIS  REWARD  165 

"  This  leemonade's  awfu'  guid,"  remarked 
the  apprentice. 

Mr.  Redhorn  placed  his  hand  on  his  brow, 
shading  his  eyes.  After  an  interval  of  silence 
he  spoke  in  the  voice  that  had  been  unfamiliar 
to  the  boy's  mother. 

"  Wullie,  ye've  got  an  esteemed  uncle  in 
Canada,  an'  I  daursay  he  could  dae  a  heap  for 
ye.  But  he  couldna  be  mair  anxious  for  yer 
prosperity  nor — nor  the  man  that's  speakin'  to 
ye  the  noo.  ...  I  dinna  want  to  loss  ye, 
Wullie.  I  dinna  want  to  loss  ye.  What  I 
mean  to  say  is  that  Fairport's  maybe  no'  as 
big  as  Canada,  but  there'll  aye  be  room  for 
yersel'  as  a  penter  in  the  former.  D'ye  see 
what  I  mean?  .  .  .  Weel,  noo,  Wullie,  did 
ye  ever  think  hoo  ye  wud  like  to  ha'e  a — a 
stepfayther?  " 

There  was  a  dead  silence  in  the  room.  Mr. 
Redhorn  tried  to  face  his  apprentice,  but  he 
could  not  manage  it. 

"  Wullie !  "  he  said.    "  Supposin' " 

"  D'ye  mean  yersel'  ?  "  the  boy  suddenly  in- 
quired. 

"  Jist  that,"  said  his  master.  "  I  seen  yer 
mither  this  mornin'.  She — she — was  willin'." 

Something  manly  came  into  the  boy's  face. 
He  laid  the  half-emptied  tumbler  on  the  table, 
and  rose  from  his  seat.  He  took  a  step  towards 
Mr.  Redhorn. 

"  I'm  gled  it's  you,"  he  said  gravely. 

Mr.  Redhorn  leapt  up,  his  face  beaming. 


166    WULLIE  McWATTIE'S  MASTER 

"  Here's  ma  haun',  Wullie !  "  he  cried,  "  an' 
may  the  Lord  help  me  to  deal  justly  wi'  you 
an'  yer  mither." 

They  shook  hands. 

"  I'm  awfu'  gled !  "  said  Willie  warmly,  and 
the  next  instant  became  painfuly  embarrassed. 

But  ere  long  he  recovered,  as  did  his  prospec- 
tive stepfather. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Eedhorn  thoughtfully, 
when  the  boy  was  about  to  go  to  his  home,  "  I 
suppose  this  has  been  a  maist  stupendous  sur- 
prise to  ye,  Wullie." 

"  Aw,  weel,"  returned  Willie  quietly,  "  it 
wasna  exac'ly  a  surprise." 

Then  he  laughed,  and  so  did  Mr.  Bedhorn, 
though  he  couldn't  have  explained  why  he 
did  so. 

Joseph  Redhorn  paced  the  room  that  had 
been  his  solitary  home  for  so  long.  He  had 
already  decided  on  a  new  home — a  cottage  with 
three  rooms  and  kitchen,  and  a  bit  of  garden. 

"  It'll  be  the  brawest  cottage  in  Fairport, 
frae  a  penter's  p'int  o'  view,"  he  told  himself. 
"  For  yin  thing,  I'll  dae  the  lobby  dado  wi' 
conventional  comets!  By  Jupiter,  an'  so  I 
will ! " 

In  an  ecstasy  of  satisfaction  with  everything 
in  creation,  he  smote  his  chest. 

"  Crif tens !  I'm  that  happy,  I  wish  I  was 
a  songster!" 


What  the  Press  Says  of 

OH!   CHRISTINA! 

By  J.  J.  BELL 

Illustrated,  Cloth,  net  60  cts. 

Newark  Call 

"One  lays  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  of  pleasure 
and  a  wish  that  it  were  longer — much  longer — 
and  that  some  day  Mr.  Bell  will  let  us  know  what 
really  becomes  of  Christina  and  if  she  ever  grows 
up  out  of  her  altogether  delightful  childhood." 

Denver  Republican 

"The  cleverness  of  the  little  rough  diamond,  the 
goodness  of  her  heart  in  spite  of  her  manners, 
which  shock  the  prim  old  maiden  aunt,  the  ef- 
forts of  Christina  to  protect  the  interests  of  that 
aunt  and,  over  all,  to  entangle  her  in  a  real  ro- 
mance, make  a  cheering  bit  of  reading  through 
the  all  too  few  pages  of  the  book.  The  charac- 
ters in  the  story  stand  out  like  human  beings 
and  one  has  the  feeling  of  having  made  some 
new  acquaintances  when  the  end  of  the  account- 
ing of  their  doings  is  reached." 

Boston  Transcript 

'"Oh!  Christina!'  is  a  'Wee  Macgreegor'  in 
petticoats.  There  is  in  it  more  than  transitory 
fun.  It  is  full  of  human  nature  as  it  exists  not 
merely  in  Scotland,  but  everywhere. " 

Denver  Post 

"Wee  MacGreegor's  Cousin  comes  and  the  life 
tdat  little  Scotch  lassie  leads  her  prim  maiden 
auntie  is  enough  to  keep  one  laughing  from 
start  to  finish,  and  you  scarcely  know  which  of 
the  two  you  like  the  better." 

Rochester  Post  Express 

"The  naturalness,  naivete,  and  inimitable  hu- 
mor of  the  narrative  will  win  for  it  a  wide 
popularity. " 


"A  modern  up-to-date  bit  of  fiction." — Book  News 
THIRD  EDITION  READY 

Whither  Thou  Goest 

By  J.  J.  BELL 
12mo,  Cloth,  net  $1.20 


The  OutlooJc 

"In  'Whither  Thou  Goest,'  Mr.  Bell  is  more 
ambitious  than  in  'Wee  Macgreegor,'  and  in 
many  ways  shows  a  deeper  knowledge  of  life 
and  its  intricacies.  The  story  is  not  on  ordi- 
nary lines  ;  it  is  most  skillfully  constructed  and 
includes  a  variety  of  characters  which  make  it 
bright  and  unfailingly  entertaining. " 

Boston  Times 

"We  all  remember  Mr.  Bell  as  the  author  of 
'Wee  Macgreegor,'  but,  good  as  it  is,  this  new 
story  is  his  best  work — thus  far.  In  it  he  strikes 
a  new  vein,  perfectly  irresistible  to  any  one  who 
loves  a  straightforward,  honest  tale,  full  of  liv- 
ing, breathing  characters  whom  one  seems  to 
have  met  and  known." 

Rochester  Advertiser 

"Mr.  Bell's  latest  more  than  realizes  all  expecta- 
tions. As  a  bit  of  writing,  it  is  exceptionally 
well-done;  as  a  story,  it  occupies  a  unique  place. 
The  story  is  well  told,  the  action  is  rapid  and 
leads  to  a  natural  climax.  Mr.  Bell  has  a  finely 
developed  sense  of  humor,  a  healthy  outlook  on 

Minneapolis  Tribune 

"Mr.  Bell  is  a  novelist  of  the  Dickensian  type, 
and  in  this  new  story  he  makes  use  of  his  rare 
gifts  of  sincerity  and  simplicity.  He  sees  below 
the  surface  of  things  and  treats  with  genial  hu- 
mor and  kindly  philosophy  the  affairs  of  every- 
day life.  Mr.  Bell's  new  book  will  not  fail  to 
add  to  his  reputation  for  the  crisp  dialogue  and 
the  quaint  touch  of  Scotch  character  and  humor 
which  make  his  other  works  so  popular. " 


PR 

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lie's  master 

PR 

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Mistress  McWattie,  if  ye  gang  to  Canada,  Jose.p. 
Ridhorn's  a  done  man!  "     (Page 


